


Theme & Variations

by phabulousphantom



Series: Sheet Music [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hand Jobs, M/M, Musicians, Oral Sex, Romance, Shower Sex, klance, musicians au, sheet music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2020-04-11 22:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phabulousphantom/pseuds/phabulousphantom
Summary: Lance is officially graduating from The New Altea Institute of Music. The whole world lies ahead of him, and with Keith at his side, he's confident about the future.But when Shiro pulls a stunt-move to reconcile Keith and their parents, it backfires. Keith has no choice but to confront his past, all the things holding him back, and Lance must step into a new role in their relationship--while at the same time navigating the cutthroat wilderness of a professional music career.





	1. Theme

**Author's Note:**

> BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THE MUSICIANS AU
> 
> I can't help myself. I love these boys too much.
> 
> Welcome to the Sheet Music sequel! AH! I'm so happy you're here. Some notes to get us started:
> 
> Luxite plays a set at the end of the chapter, so I will link and elaborate a playlist in my endnotes.
> 
> This fic is going to be more Keith-centric in terms of conflict, with a focus on family issues. That being the case, prepare yourselves for some unsupportive parents and also some original characters.
> 
> THAT being said, this is still Sheet Music, so I promise plenty of happy times for our beautiful musician babies.
> 
> I am SO excited to share this story with you all! MWAH! Happy reading!
> 
> (Also, evidently, I decided I needed _more_ to do, so this chapter contains some original lyrics.)

Graduation became decidedly less exciting as soon as Lance learned the awful truth. The reality that had been kept from him for four solid years. The dark secret nobody wanted him to know. The Great Deception of the Universe. Though graduating, he would not receive his diploma today.

            “What do you _mean_ the certificate holders are empty?”

            “I mean they’re empty,” Matt replied as the pair of them funneled down the hallway crammed with other students in white gowns and mortarboards headed for the large rehearsal chamber in Quintessence Hall. “The school sends your diploma in the mail once grades are final.”

            “Are you _kidding_ me?”

            Some of the strands on the bright blue tassel that hung from Lance’s hat got caught in his mouth as he reeled his head around for emphasis, so he spit them out with a huff.

            “How did you think this worked?” Matt chuckled, accepting a slip of paper and a golf pencil from an attendant as he passed through the door to the rehearsal chamber. “We can sit wherever we want. They can’t be expected to sort everyone’s certificates on the spot.”

            Lance scowled and accepted a slip and golf pencil himself. Now that he knew, he supposed it made sense. They did have to group with their colleges for the ceremony—vocalists with vocalists, orchestra students with orchestra students—but other than that, arrangement was fair game. Lance had remarked to Matt that it was crazy that New Altea didn’t have to assign them seats in order to get their diplomas to them, thus the ugly revelation. Per the usual, Matt found Lance’s frustration hilarious.

            “Didn’t they do the same thing at your high school graduation?” he asked.

            “I don’t know,” Lance replied, a little defensive. “I didn’t go to my high school graduation. I was in Cuba.”

            He’d been given the option to walk in the ceremony or accept a (dirt cheap) ticket to Havana leaving the same day. His mother had tried to convince him that “he was only going to graduate from high school once”, but sitting on a beach in the Gulf with his cousins had sounded astronomically more appealing than putting on a stupid cap and gown and parading for his parents. Walking at New Altea, though, had been his choice—and one he’d been excited about until ten seconds ago.

            “I just wanna hold that stupid piece of paper in my hands,” he said, crumpling the slip he was supposed to write his name on as he gestured emphatically.

            “I know, my dude,” Matt replied. “Believe me, I know.”

            With a reassuring smile, Matt turned his attention to filling out his slip, so Lance followed suit. _Lance Ramón McClain. Bachelor of Music, Tenor Trombone. Cum laude._ He was particularly proud of that _cum laude_ part, and the accompanying gold cord around his shoulders.

            He almost couldn’t believe the day had finally come. Today, he would graduate with honors from the finest music school in the country. _He_ was an official alumnus of The New Altea Institute of Music. What came next? He didn’t know, but neither did he care. Not right now. No, _now_ was for celebrating. Now was for being proud of his achievements.

            “Lance! Matt!”

            Looking up, Lance spotted Hunk working his way toward them through the crowd. As soon as he arrived, Lance threw his arms around him and the pair embraced.

            “Big day,” Lance said.

            Hunk let his breath out. “Can you believe it?”

            Pulling back, Lance laughed and offered Hunk a smile. “Honestly? No.”

            Once the room filled, some event organizer wrangled them all into groups by college. Matt and Lance parted ways with Hunk and shuffled to the band corner. Then they all stood around and congratulated each other until the ceremony started, at which time the lot formed orderly lines and left the rehearsal chamber to go up to the concert hall. Lance took a deep breath as the lines came to a stop at the theater threshold. He nervously twisted his bracelet—a simple leather band with that guitar pick Keith had given him attached.

            From inside, a muffled voice announced their entrance and the doors opened to release the reverberating applause from those in attendance. Lines of graduates swept into the orchestra seating level.

            The acoustics in Quintessence Hall were incredible. Though the adulation wasn’t intended solely for Lance, the sound washed over his soul like a warm wave. A beaming smile radiated from his face. His heart swelled. He couldn’t help glancing around the back of the orchestra and the loge and balcony and box seats, looking for his family and Keith. He knew he wouldn’t find them, but he did know that _those_ people were cheering just for him.

            He and Matt took their seats, tapped their feet through the speeches and commencement traditions. A decade passed before anybody got down to business announcing names and presenting empty certificate holders. The orchestra students went first, then vocalists, and Lance hollered about as loud as was physically possible when Hunk walked across the stage. Then it was time for band.

            Lance really _couldn’t_ believe it. This was it. After four years of hard work, four years of theory and history and concerts and intensives and rehearsals and practice and playing, he was finished. He’d actually _done_ it, _actually_ graduated from college with a degree in music. How wild was that? His heart beat hard and fast and happy as he lined up at the side of the stage and down the aisle with his classmates, with Matt, as he passed the reader his slip of paper. So what if the certificate holders were empty and the ceremony was mostly a glorified photo-op? He was _graduating. Him._

“Lance Ramón McClain, Bachelor of Music in Tenor Trombone. Cum laude.”

            A corner of the loge absolutely _erupted_ with thunderous applause, cheering, tongue trills, and raucous Cuban Spanish—so much so that most everyone turned to look. Laughing, Lance blew a kiss to his family as he headed across the stage to collect his diploma holder and shake hands with the school’s president and have his picture taken.

            “ _Ay_ , _va a la Habana y apaga fuego!_ ” Veronica shouted.

            Lance answered her with a tongue trill of his own.

            Back at his seat, Lance cradled the empty holder in his hands, brushed his fingers across the silver embossing of New Altea’s coat of arms and the name of the school in an elegant block font. The inside, though lacking a diploma, had a gorgeous sketch of the Alfor Memorial Building. Lance ran his fingers across that, too. He’d spent countless hours in that building, and those hours had brought him here.

            He found himself proud and nostalgic and hopeful and a little bit sad all at once when the president stepped up to the microphone and pronounced them graduated, told them to move their tassels to the other side of their caps. He held onto those blue strands for a moment after flipping them to the left.

            _This was it_.

            The next chapter of his life would start as soon as he let go.

            Lance did so with a smile as big as the sky.

 

Outside, under the blinding sun typical to Altea’s late spring, Lance met up with his family at their predesignated tree on the quad. Pidge and Sam and Colleen were there, too, along with Hunk’s family and Shay, and Krolia. And Keith. Lance’s family swallowed him into a gauntlet of hugs and flowers and necklaces made out of money, so it took him a hot second to reach his boyfriend, and he was one hundred percent ruffled by the time he did. Still, the sight of Keith with his hair pulled back, wearing a red velvet blazer, black skinny tie, and tight-fit suit pants more than made up for it.

            “Congratulations, Boy Scout,” Keith said, smiling a smile that made Lance feel some kind of way while he wrapped his arms around Keith for a hug. As Lance pulled back, Keith pecked a modest kiss to his mouth. “I’m so proud of you.”

            “Thanks,” Lance replied and kissed him again. “I’m glad you came.”

            “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

            They smiled at each other like a couple of idiots until Pidge broke them up to give Lance a hug of her own and complain that she still had a year left at New Altea. The others cycled in after her: Shay, Hunk, Matt, their families, Krolia, Lance’s parents again. Pictures were taken. More congratulations were flung around. Even _more_ pictures were taken. Eventually, the group broke up to find their cars and head to Santiago de Cuba, which the McClains had booked for the rest of the day for a big party with all the people.

            “You riding with me, Boy Scout?” Keith asked.

            Lance took his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “You know it.”

            Keith grinned. “Good answer.”

            Hand in hand, they fell into step with Krolia and walked toward her van and Keith’s motorcycle, both parked on the street behind Quintessence Hall. Lance tried not to think too hard about the fact that this would be his last time on campus as a student, focusing instead on the sunshine, on the warmth of Keith’s hand in his, the light weight of his certificate holder in the other. When they reached the van, Lance went to shed his cap and gown and other accoutrements, but Keith grabbed his hands to stop him.

            “Wait, wait,” he said. “Let me admire you some more.”

            Lance chuckled and struck a dramatic pose. Keith laughed—and laughed harder when Lance started voguing.

            “Stop,” Keith said, the grin on his face an unconvincing accompaniment to his imperative. “Never,” Lance replied, but Keith snatched both his arms before he could dab.

            “You make me absolutely crazy,” Keith said.

            “Too bad,” Lance replied. “I already signed my rental contract with Ryner, so you’re stuck with me for a year at least.”

            The reminder that the pair of them would very shortly be living together brought grins to both their faces. Hunk and Lance’s lease for their apartment in Tower 1 would expire now that they’d graduated, and Hunk already had plans to bunk with his parents to save money, so Lance had kicked around a couple of ideas, eventually deciding to move in with Keith and Krolia. Ryner had approved, insisting she was more than happy to be Lance’s landlord, and Krolia was thrilled over splitting rent three ways. Lance still couldn’t believe how chill she was about the whole arrangement.

            “Okay,” she said, opening the back of the van. “I didn’t bring our present inside because I didn’t want to carry it around, but…” She grabbed a box wrapped in paper decorated with mortarboards and held it out to Lance. “This is from us.”

            “You didn’t have to get me anything,” Lance said, accepting the present.

            “Are you stupid? Of course we did. Not a typical graduation gift, granted, but…”

            “Practical,” Keith submitted and earned a nod from Krolia.

            “Yes, practical.”

            Curious now, Lance peeled back the paper, then set the box down to go after the tape, accepting Keith’s keys to cut it open. Inside, he found a brand new motorcycle helmet with gorgeous custom artwork that wrapped around the sides—the album cover from Meat Loaf’s _Bat Out of Hell._ Lance actually gasped.

            “Now you can finally stop wearing mine,” Krolia said with a chuckle.

            “Oh my god, _oh my god_ , it’s _beautiful_ ,” Lance gushed, lifting the helmet from the box with reverent fingers. “Thank you so much.” He didn’t care if Keith wanted him to keep his cap on, Lance had to try this helmet _now._ Dropping the mortarboard in the box, he smoothed his hair and slipped the helmet on his head. It fit like a glove and, holy shit, was it comfortable. He released an involuntary groan.

            “Fits okay?” Keith asked.

            “My ears are so happy,” Lance replied. Krolia’s helmet had always been a squeeze, particularly on the sides of his head. “Is this why you wanted those creepy measurements?”

            Keith had come at him with a tape measure a few weeks ago and wrapped the thing around Lance’s skull in every conceivable combination, but refused to explain why. Rising, Lance moved to admire his reflection in the van’s side mirror.

            “I told you I couldn’t explain,” Keith replied. He chuckled as Lance turned his head side to side to see more of the art. “I wasn’t being creepy.”

            “Measuring my head and refusing to give _any_ reason is creepy, Keith.”

            Keith’s eyebrows fell into a pout as Lance straightened and turned to look at him, so it was Lance’s turn to chuckle. He unzipped his graduation robe and folded it before putting it and all his other goodies in the box. Krolia placed in the back of the van and said she would take it back to “our place.” Lance could not have been more pleased to be included in that first person pronoun, but when he glanced at Keith with a grin, the guy was still scowling.

            “What’s that look for?” Lance laughed.

            “I’ll meet you boys at the restaurant,” Krolia called, climbing into the driver’s seat.

            “I wasn’t being creepy,” Keith insisted.

            Lance removed his helmet as Krolia started the engine and pulled away from the curb. He stepped up to Keith and stroked his cheek.

            “I was teasing, beautiful,” Lance said. Keith’s eyes sparked, and his lips curled into a smile. Lance drew a little closer, arms around Keith’s back. “The helmet is perfect. I love it. And you. Especially you. I’m so excited to share a house.”

            “You mean you’re excited to use Ryner’s piano whenever you want,” Keith replied, his voice low. His gaze flicked ever-so-subtly to Lance’s mouth.

            “Believe me, there’s plenty I’m excited to do whenever we want.”

            Laughing lightly, Keith draped his arms across Lance’s shoulders while Lance tightened his hug. Their lips met, and Lance was amazed still at the fire between them. Keith, it seemed, would always make him woozy, warm him, stoke his hunger for more. Somehow, each kiss was exactly suited to its situation. This one was an expression of excitement, of affection, of looking forward. It was also a promise.

            Of what, Lance didn’t fully comprehend yet.

            But he could sense it.

            “You’re still willing to sit through all this rigamarole again in two days?” Keith asked.

            Lance had agreed to go with him to Shiro’s graduation ceremony. The Master’s students got their own because they were fancy like that. Lance pressed another firm kiss to Keith’s mouth.

            “Hell yeah,” he said. “It’s the perfect chance to embarrass him.”

            “Maybe I’ll try to sneak in an air horn again,” Keith replied.

            “Wait, did you try to sneak one in today?”

            Laughing, Keith nodded. Lance released another involuntary groan.

            “I love you _so_ much.”

 

**

 

Packing up for good was a bizarre experience. Every time Lance had piled all his shit into boxes to leave Tower 1 before, he had done so with the knowledge that he would be back, that it was just for the summer. Now, though. Now he would not be back. He’d reached the end of the railroad tracks of education and a vast, shapeless wilderness lay before him. He didn’t have a schedule anymore, didn’t have a checklist to reach a goal. He was well and truly in charge of himself.

            That was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

            “Lance?” Shay called from the kitchen. “Do you have a second?”

            “Sure!” Lance replied, leaving his room, where Keith was throwing garbage bags over his clothes, to help Shay in the kitchen. She looked up at him from the chair she’d pulled up in front of the fridge.

            “What in here is yours and what do you want to keep?” she asked.

            By then, the fridge was mostly condiments and leftovers. Lance and Hunk had been careful not to buy a bunch of groceries before move-out day, which meant their existence food-wise had been pretty pathetic for a week or two. Bending, Lance cast a glance around the contents.

            “The only thing I want is that jar of pickles,” he said. “The rest can go.”

            “Is there ketchup?” Keith shouted.

            “Yeah?” Lance called back.

            “Take that. We’re out.”

            “You got it.” Lance grabbed the ketchup thing and put it next to the pickles. “Okay.”

            Shay chewed her lip for a second before speaking. “Would it be all right if I took the rest? Not the leftovers, but—everything else? It seems like such a waste to throw it out.”

            “Shay, _please_ take whatever you want,” Lance replied.

            “Are you sure?”

            “Take the food, Shay,” Keith said, appearing in the hallway with an armful of garbage bags with hangers poking out the tops. He dumped them on top of a pile of boxes of Lance’s stuff. “You’ll be doing Lance a service by relieving his guilt.”

            Shay blushed, and Lance gave Keith a hairy scowl, but Keith just smiled and slipped off down the hall. Even after that, it took another two rounds of questions and reassurance to convince Shay that Lance really did want her to take the food. She started sorting through it all, tossing leftovers and making a pile for herself in one corner of the fridge. Hunk emerged from his room with a massive stack of papers for recycling.

            “I don’t know what I kept all these assignments for,” he said. “I’m not gonna need them.”

            “Sentimental value?” Lance chuckled.

            Shaking his head, Hunk dropped the stack into their recycling bin. “I dunno, man. I think maybe I just wasn’t ready to let go.”

            Lance clapped a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Only you could get philosophical over homework.”

            Hunk frowned, but nodded, which prompted a chuckle from Lance before he returned to his room. There, Keith was putting the finishing touches on the closet, stacking shoes neatly into a box while he knelt on the floor.

            “You can just toss those in,” Lance said.

            “No,” Keith replied. “We have to keep them organized. Otherwise we’ll have to do twice the work when we unpack them.”

            “If you say so.”

            The Avenues house was only like ten minutes away, which made packing particularly annoying. They didn’t have to move any of it that far, but it still required the same amount of prep work. Lance leaned against the doorframe and watched Keith stack shoes for a minute, admiring his care and precision.

            “You gonna stare at me all day or are you gonna help?” Keith asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

            “Oh, I’m gonna stare for sure,” Lance replied.

            He opened his eyes wide and got down on all fours to creep across the floor. Keith tried to ignore him and keep working, but that only lasted for a few seconds after Lance stuck his face within an inch of his, eyelids peeled back. Laughing, Keith turned his head to the side and pecked a kiss to Lance’s lips.

            “Rethink your answer,” Keith said.

            “Don’t reinforce my behavior, then,” Lance replied.

            Keith worked a blank expression onto his face and reached for a couple more pairs of shoes. Lance followed, keeping his eyes glued to Keith’s face and his nose a hair’s breadth from his cheek. Then he got smacked on the head with a Converse high top.

            “Ouch,” he laughed, tipping over. “You’re violent, anybody ever tell you that?”

            “Yeah, my parents every time they drove me to taekwondo practice.”

            “Oh my god, you did _taekwondo?_ ”

            “All the way to purple belt,” Keith replied. “My parents tried to enroll me in karate with Takashi, but I was a brat and refused to go because I ‘wasn’t Japanese.’ Mostly I wanted to learn spin kicks.”

            “Can you still _do_ them?”

            “Probably not without practice,” Keith laughed. “But a high kick maybe. Here…” He passed Lance the shoe he’d hit him with and encouraged him to stand. “Hold that up.”

            He positioned Lance’s arm in the air, fully extended, the Converse atop his flat palm, then pulled up his leggings and pulled down his shirt, tucking his arms low but close to his body. His whole top half leaned back as he kicked, legs almost perfectly perpendicular to the floor, his foot flicking out on the end to knock the shoe from Lance’s hand. Flushing, Lance let his mouth drop open.

            “Holy shit,” he said.

            Keith just laughed, rubbing his hip and stretching a little. “Ow.”

            “I am so hot for you right now.”

            “Hey,” Hunk said, knocking on the doorframe as he came in. “You guys hungry? I think I’m gonna order a pizza.”

            “Hunk, watch Keith do taekwondo,” Lance said. He scrambled after the shoe and thrust it into the air again. Chuckling, Keith shook his head.

            “Is that a yes or no on pizza?”

            “Keith, kick the shoe.”

            “Yes on pizza,” Keith said, prepping his stance. He leaned back and kicked again just as Hunk started to leave the room. Something popped that time, but he did hit the high top. Hunk’s eyes widened.

            “Wow,” he said. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

            “I think that might have been the last time,” Keith replied, doubling over and gripping his hips while he laughed. “Should’ve stretched first.”

            Chuckling, Hunk nodded and left the room, off to order pizza. Lance stepped up behind Keith and took over massaging his hips. Keith let out a little vocal sigh and leaned against him. Lance touched a kiss to his shoulder.

            “You should take lessons again,” he said.

            Keith shook his head. “I’d like to, but I think it would just remind me too much of being a kid under my mom’s thumb.”

            “Won’t know until you try.”

            Quiet for a moment, then, “No.”

            Such a deceptively simple answer. It left no room for further discussion, nothing for Lance to pursue. He decided not to push. That wouldn’t have been wise, and it wasn’t his place. Not when there was clearly more behind the word than a simple lack of interest in picking up an old hobby. He kissed Keith’s shoulder again.

            “Okay.”

          “Forgot to ask. Toppings,” Hunk said, reappearing in the doorframe. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

 

They finished up at Tower 1 by late afternoon. Lance and Hunk tearfully hugged and said goodbye in the parking lot after checking out with their RA. Keith and Shay chuckled at them, seeing as they’d be all of half an hour’s drive from each other, but the tears were more for the end of an era than anything else.

            “I’m gonna miss living with you, buddy,” Lance said, patting Hunk’s back as they separated.

            “Me too,” he replied. “But you’re gonna have fun, I bet.”

            Both of them glanced to where Keith and Shay were loading the last of Lance’s boxes into the back of Krolia’s van. Lance’s heart pinched, and he couldn’t help a smile. Letting his breath out, he nodded.

            “Yeah, I think I am.”

            Grinning, Hunk patted Lance’s shoulder and drew him in for another hug.

            “You have some fun yourself, buddy, okay?” Lance said as they embraced.

            Hunk blushed—Lance could feel the heat of it on the side of his own face—and cleared his throat before pulling back. Lance laughed, which only deepened the color in Hunk’s cheeks and made him turn his face toward the ground.

            “Ready when you are, Boy Scout,” Keith called, shutting the van’s back doors.

            “Well, I’ll see you,” Lance said. He and Hunk hugged one last time. “Double date soon?”

            “Absolutely.”

            Parting, both of them released deep breaths and nodded, then stepped away from each other. It was beyond weird to think that Lance wouldn’t return to Tower 1 that night to detox the day with Hunk, that Hunk wouldn’t be in the kitchen eating cereal in the morning when Lance got up. They’d always be best friends, but that relationship was changing now.

            Lance traded places with Shay, and he and Hunk waved at each other from across the parking lot. Pursing his lips, Lance did his best to hold back tears as Hunk climbed into Shay’s truck. Keith laced their fingers together and brought Lance’s hand to his mouth for a soft kiss. Comforted, Lance relaxed. He had somebody to help him learn to embrace the changes, at least. Keith gave his hand a squeeze.

            “We don’t have to go yet if you don’t want to,” he said.

            Lance shook his head. “No, I do.”

            “Kinda weird to say goodbye, huh?”

            A nod this time. “Yeah… Yeah, it is.”

            He looked at Keith and smiled, then let go of his hand to walk around the side of the van and climb into the passenger seat, where he lifted his blue hydrangea into his lap. Keith followed suit, starting the car, pulling out of the parking lot, heading toward the Avenues. Both of them were quiet on the drive, quiet as they arrived at the house and unloaded boxes. Pretty soon, the back of the van was empty, and a corner of the living room was full. Pickles and ketchup stored in the fridge. Lance nestled his hydrangea among the collection of plants near the window well.

            “I was thinking we should organize my shit to make room for your stuff,” Keith said. “And, like, clean the whole place and purge everything. Help it feel like your space, too.”

            He went to a particular box that he’d labeled SUITCASE, which they’d packed first, that had everything an actual suitcase would, and picked it up.

            “We can do this stuff now,” he said.

            “Hang on,” Lance said, gently drawing him to a stop. “Let’s just…sit for a second.”

            He took the box from Keith’s arms and set it down, then pulled Keith over to the couch. Lance flopped, sinking so low he swore he could feel the floor. Chuckling, he tugged Keith’s arm until Keith climbed on and settled alongside him.

            “We should get a new couch,” Lance said. “Like a sectional or something.”

            “You wanna pay for a sectional?”

            “Not a new one, but maybe secondhand. I’m gonna be rolling in dough once all my relatives finish sending graduation cards.”

            “If you ever say ‘rolling in dough’ again, I’m disowning you.”

            “You’re cute when you’re mean.”

            “Go to hell.”

            Squealing, Lance wrapped his arms around Keith and kicked his feet and cooed until Keith wrangled himself free. He positively _glared_ at Lance. Lance laughed and reached up to brush some of Keith’s hair from his face, but Keith knocked his hand away.

            “I will spin kick you into the sun,” Keith replied.

            “I thought you couldn’t do spin kicks anymore.”

            The comment earned a snort and a smile, at least. Keith grabbed Lance’s cheeks in one of his hands and squeezed.

            “I’ll make an exception for you,” he said, then got up.

            Rolling over, Lance watched Keith return to the suitcase box and carry it down the hall. The thought of doing _more_ moving today kind of made Lance want to die, but he didn’t want to leave Keith to do it himself, so he hauled his ass off the couch and followed. Back in the bedroom, Keith had already opened the box and removed a good portion of its contents.

            “Here,” he said, holding up a pile of toiletries. “Put these wherever you want.”

            “Perfect. The fridge it is.”

            Keith rolled his eyes, but the expression came with a smile. Lance took the toiletries and went to the bathroom to put them away. Permanently adding his toothbrush to Keith and Krolia’s novelty Grand Ole Opry mug next to the sink was satisfying in a weird way. Same with finding a home in the shower for his soap and shampoo. He made some space in a drawer for his skincare stuff, and his mind buzzed. He _lived_ here now.

            By the time he returned to their room— _their_ room—Keith had gathered all the laundry off the floor and stuffed it in a hamper. He’d started pulling things from the closet and tossing them into two piles on the bed.

            “Oh, okay, we’re really doing this,” Lance said with a laugh.

            “You need space for your clothes,” Keith said. “I don’t want you to live out of boxes.”

            “I can live out of a box for a day, Keith,” Lance replied.

            But Keith didn’t dignify him with a response, continuing to pull hangers from the closet instead. He made decisions with surprising speed, barely glancing at each item before choosing whether to keep it. The closet was packed, but he cut it in half after fifteen minutes. Lance just stood and watched him in awe.

            “Let’s hang your stuff,” Keith said, pushing sweaty hair from his eyes. He left the room briefly and returned with a garbage bag full of clothes. He popped the hangers poking out the top onto the rack and slipped the garbage bag off with a swoosh.

            “You’re so efficient, it’s sexy,” Lance remarked.

            Laughing, Keith went to his keep-pile and hefted it into his arms to return it to the closet. Lance admired the lean curve of his muscles as he worked.

            “Go get the rest of your clothes,” Keith said.

            “Yes, sir,” Lance replied, giving him a salute before heading to the living room.

            Between the two of them, the task only took twenty minutes. Lance’s clothes fit just fine in the closet after Keith’s purge, and they used the garbage bags from moving for all the stuff he wanted to get rid of. After filling one of them with hangers, and taking the bags into the living room, the pair of them returned to the bedroom and collapsed on the mattress.      

            “Okay,” Keith breathed, “I have officially done all I can today.”

            Swallowing, Lance nodded. “Ditto.”

            Keith’s head lolled to the side, and he smiled at Lance. “Welcome home,” he said.

            Heart racing, Lance returned Keith’s smile, scooting closer to touch a kiss to his lips. Keith kissed him back, rising a little to snuggle their bodies together before settling. They were both tired and sweaty from a day spent moving and cleaning, but Lance could only identify his mood as indescribably happy. He got to share another part of his life with Keith now—a big part. Living together was a pretty sizable milestone, but Lance’s instincts told him that this was the right time.

            “When’s Krolia off work?” he asked, stroking Keith’s hair.

            “Eleven,” Keith replied. “I’m picking her up.”

            “Okay. And what time do we have to leave for Shiro’s graduation tomorrow?”

            “Ten.” Keith pressed a deep kiss to Lance’s jaw. “You’re in charge of setting your own alarm for how much time you’ll need.”

            Nodding, Lance brushed his fingers down Keith’s side. Back up. Slow and lazy. After a moment he rested his hand on Keith’s bottom. They laid together quietly, breathing, listening to the leaves on those old Avenues trees outside rustle in a May breeze. Things were peaceful. Then Lance’s little-shit instinct kicked in, and he decided it was absolutely necessary to snap Keith’s underwear elastic against his butt, but try as he might, he couldn’t find it.

            “Oh my god, are you wearing a thong?” Lance asked, already blushing.

            “Yeah?” Keith laughed. “You know I hate lines.”

            “Have you been wearing it the _whole time?_ ”

            “The whole—what the hell?”

            Keith sat up, but Lance did not want him to see how red he was, so he did the super subtle thing of clapping both his hands over his face. Keith just chuckled.

            “Can’t believe I still make you nervous,” he said.

            “I’m not nervous,” Lance replied, though the pitch at which the sentence came out did not help his case. “I’m not—you don’t—you’re—ugh.” Eyes shut, he dragged his hands down his face. “You’re just effortlessly sexy, all right?”

            Lance cracked open an eye to find Keith smiling down at him, soft and warm and beautiful. He’d never been happier to have someone in his life, never been more grateful for the aligning of the universe that had brought them together. Lance was about as sappy and sentimental as they came, and he knew that, but it didn’t stop that happy little ping he got in his heart every time he looked at Keith for more than a second.

            Leaning down, Keith brought their lips together. “I didn’t think it was possible for me to love anybody as much as I love you, Lance McClain,” he said.

            “I’m glad you picked me,” Lance replied.

            Keith hummed a gentle note and kissed him again.

            Their fingers found the hems of each other’s shirts and teased at them a moment, brushing up and under, across skin. Keith climbed over Lance, his knees tight on either side of Lance’s hips, and he pitched himself downward to bring their lips together again and again, pausing only to let Lance slip his shirt off over his head.

            Lance’s hands went to Keith’s leggings next. He couldn’t help giving Keith’s thighs a squeeze anymore than he could help snapping the waistband on Keith’s underwear against his skin. Keith huffed.

            “Jerk,” he said, breath warm across Lance’s mouth.

            “That’s what you get for wearing a th—”

            Keith cut the taunt short by guiding Lance’s hand further down, under his leggings along the silky fabric of the underwear in question. Lance melted, and the rest of the word turned into a soft moan.

            Next thing he knew, Keith had unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and shimmied them far enough down Lance’s legs that he could slip a pair of fingers underneath the waistband on Lance’s underwear and pull it back. He let go with a snap. It didn’t hurt, really—more surprising than anything, and Lance quickly forgot even the surprise as Keith cupped a hand over his dick and applied pressure.

            “And you say I make _you_ crazy,” Lance breathed.

            “You do,” Keith replied.

            He kept his hand firmly planted as he leaned forward and down to link their lips again. Lance parted his, and Keith took the cue, passing his tongue across them, deft and light. Sighing, Lance lifted his hips to press harder against Keith’s hand. Keith responded by running his palm up Lance’s length and sliding a couple of fingers under his waistband again.

            “What do you think?” Keith asked.

            “I think I wanna take your leggings off and finger you. What do _you_ think?”

            “I want you—” He traced a finger around Lance’s tip. “—in my mouth, like, yesterday.”

            “I don’t see any reason why we can’t do both.”

            Keith grinned. “Me either.”

            He rose with a parting kiss and started removing his leggings, but Lance sat up and beckoned him closer so he could do it. He slid the slippery fabric down Keith’s hips and thighs, pausing to press a kiss to his bottom. Keith laughed, squeezing Lance’s hands, then freeing the rest of his legs and climbing back onto the bed to pull Lance’s shirt off over his head. He kissed his way from Lance’s lips to his waist, where he went after the pants with little decorum. Both in their underwear and blushing, they regarded each other for a moment.

            They were so lucky.

            How many people had something like this? Lance had to figure that not many did. He knew, as Keith drew him up to sitting and pushed him back against the wall, that they would fight for each other. Always. This was an _always_ thing. This was a stand by each other and defend to the death thing. They were a team.

            Lance’s fingers opened the drawer in the bedside table and located the lube by muscle memory. Keith found a position where he could reach Lance and Lance could reach him, pitched forward on his hands and knees with his ass in the air. Between that view and his easing Lance’s underwear down to take him into his mouth, Lance couldn’t keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. Even better was the humming of Keith’s vocal cords when Lance slipped the thong out of his way and slid in a first finger.

            Lucky, lucky, lucky.

            They wanted the best for each other in every aspect. Their ridiculous libidos were somehow in sync. They had so much in common, and yet some how seemed like opposites. Complements, that’s what they were. Or maybe the same note in different keys.

            The blowing and fingering lasted only until Keith was relaxed and ready, then Lance put on a condom and flipped Keith over and stretched one of his legs into the air. He let it rest on his shoulder as he entered him, then pushed Keith’s leg closer to his head as he loosened up—and consequently pushed deeper.

            Keith let out this absolutely mind-numbing moan. Lance kissed him, and Keith kissed back as the two of them fell into their rhythm.

            Lucky…lucky…lucky…lucky…

            Keith’s tongue in his mouth. Keith’s sounds in his ears. Keith’s heat in his arms.

            Keith.

            _Always._

 

**

 

Lance had not lied when he’d said he wanted to go to Shiro’s graduation. He did. He wanted to catcall Shiro from the audience when they announced his name. He wanted to shout and whistle and be disruptive. What he did _not_ want was to sit through another two hours of speeches and professors prancing around in pompous outfits. As a result, Lance _may_ not have set his alarm to go off early enough.

            “I. Will. Leave. Your. Whole. Ass. Here,” Keith said, clapping between each word as he hovered in the bathroom doorway.

            “It is completely unfair that you got up later than me and—”

            “Less! Talking! More! Grooming!”

            “All right, all right! Sheesh…”

            Turning back to the mirror, Lance finished washing his face and bent over the sink to rinse. When he looked up next, Keith was gone, so he patted his face dry and slapped on moisturizer in a rush, then ran to their bedroom to throw on his suit and tie. Keith was literally kicking up the stand on his motorcycle when Lance arrived at the top of the outside stairs.

            “Helmet,” Keith called.

            “Goddamn it.”

            Lance flipped around and hurried back to grab his helmet, which he placed over his head as he returned. He climbed on the Suzuki and patted Keith’s waist once he’d settled. Keith revved the engine and turned the bike in a circle to head down the gravel drive.

            Between the heat radiating from the sun and off the road, Lance was good and sweaty by the time they reached New Altea, which rendered most of his grooming null and void. Keith parked the bike and killed the engine.

            “Did you remember the present?” Lance asked as he dismounted.

            “In the storage compartment.”

            “And the air horn?”

            “Same,” Keith replied.

            He got off and the two of them locked their helmets up with a little bike lock Keith had added. Then he shed his gloves and shoved them into the compartment after grabbing the air horn and Shiro’s card and gift. Though Shiro was still technically waiting to hear back, he was basically a shoe-in for the Altea Philharmonic, so Lance and Keith had bought him the ugliest baseball hat they could find embroidered with the orchestra’s logo. Keith tried to pass Lance the card and gift, but Lance shook his head and made a gimme motion at the air horn.

            “You failed last time. My turn.”

            “You’re such an asshole,” Keith replied, tossing him the canister.

            “I know,” Lance said. He tucked the air horn into his inside jacket pocket, then made Keith link arms with him on that side to hide the bulge. “Perfect.”

            Rolling his eyes, Keith led the charge for Quintessence Hall where they shuffled into a crowd filing through security. Lance’s elaborate plan came to an end when he and Keith had to separate for one of those wavy wand searches. The guard found the canister and gave Lance a look that Lance did not at all care for, then waved him through. On the other side, Keith found him pouting.

            “It was never gonna work,” Keith said, linking their arms again and starting for the stairs to the loge.

            “Then why did you bring it?” Lance replied.

            “Because you insisted,” Keith laughed. “I was joking when I said we should try again.”

            “You’re mean.”

            “You think I’m cute when I’m mean.”

            Keith had him there. Lance flashed a glare, but Keith didn’t pay any attention, instead accepting a program from an usher at the theater door and heading inside. He picked out a spot right in the front row and sat down.

            “How long is this?” Lance asked, glancing at the program over Keith’s shoulder.

            “Same as yours, I’d think,” Keith replied. “Maybe shorter. There are fewer graduates.”

            “Are we doing anything after?”

            “I don’t know. Takashi was weird about it. He made it sound like there was a party, but he wouldn’t give me any details.”

            “You think he doesn’t want you to come?”

            Keith shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

            Brows drawing together, Lance gave Keith a searching look, but Keith offered a small smile in response.

            “He’s my older brother, Lance,” he said.

            Lance frowned as a series of vignettes played through his mind—bringing glasses of water to Veronica and her friends on the trampoline, laying under the coffee table while Marco watched a movie even though he’d blocked Lance’s view of the screen with a blanket, holding Luis’s buddy’s box of matches so that when their mom came out to yell at them Lance could run away because he was the fastest.

            “Siblings are the worst,” he said.

            Keith took his hand and laced their fingers together. “Mostly Takashi feels bad for telling me no, but…” Another shrug. “We’ll talk to him after.”

            Thankfully, the ceremony started on time. The Master’s graduates filed in while people applauded. Different professors and different students gave equally dry speeches as had been given at Lance’s. A string quartet played. Then they got down to announcing the names, which included a slideshow of each candidate and details about their studies at New Altea. It was all very involved.

            A thought struck Lance when they finally announced Shiro. He cheered and applauded and made an air horn noise with his mouth, but his mind was somewhere else. Even before the fanfare had finished, he’d leaned over to Keith to ask a question.

            “Is this hard for you?”

            Keith had been a student at New Altea. He’d been enrolled in _two_ majors. Quitting had been his decision, sure, but college was kind of the thing everybody did. It couldn’t have been easy to sit through two graduation ceremonies and not wonder _what if?_ Lance found himself wondering _what if_ right then. What if Keith had stayed at New Altea? What if he and Lance had met under different circumstances? What if Keith had graduated with a pair of degrees in violin and contemporary composition? Where would he be? Where would _they_ be?

            Keith was quiet for a moment as he thought. Down on the stage, the reader announced Adam as the next graduate.

            “I don’t know,” Keith said. “I’ve thought about it, but, honestly, I’m not sure how much of New Altea was _my_ choice. So I don’t really know how I feel.”

            He smiled when Lance offered an expression of concern.

            “I like my life,” Keith said. “I don’t regret my decision.”

            Something about the way he said it didn’t entirely convince Lance. Keith wasn’t lying, but the assertion still came with doubts. With _what ifs_.

            There wasn’t a question in Lance’s mind that Keith would be playing with the Altea Philharmonic if he’d finished his violin degree, and if not Altea then New York or Los Angeles, or hell, even Berlin.

            It wasn’t exactly fair to compare world-famous orchestras with Blade Base, and Keith was certainly better suited to rock music than classical, but nevertheless, the curiosity remained.

            Who would Keith be if he’d stayed?

            More importantly, would he have been happy?

            Lance couldn’t stop running scenarios through the rest of the ceremony, and he was still thinking about it as he and Keith left Quintessence Hall to meet up with Shiro. They found Adam first, at the top of the steps outside the building, and exchanged hugs and handshakes.

            “Hey, congratulations to you, too,” Adam said, putting a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Any big plans now that you’ve finished your Bachelor’s?”

            “Oh, uh, sort of? Not really.” Lance chuckled. “I just moved in with Keith and Krolia, and I’m planning on going full time at the record store where I work so I can kick some of my student debt to the curb.”

            Adam nodded in approval.

            “Other than that, just trying to get some more traction for the jazz band.”

            Smiling, Keith wrapped his arms sideways around Lance’s waist. “It’ll happen.”

            Lance let out a breath. “We hope.”

            Adam chuckled, and Shiro materialized from the crowd, looking frazzled. He’d probably been mobbed by fellow graduates and their families wanting autographs and pictures. The guy was already pretty famous, _and_ this was a classical music crowd. He huffed a sigh as he joined their group and gave Adam a hug.

            “Happy graduation,” Keith said when Shiro turned to embrace him.

            “Thanks,” Shiro breathed. “Thanks for coming.” He turned to Lance next, and they hugged. “I’m really glad you guys could be here.”

            “Of course,” Keith replied. “I’m the _good_ brother.”

            Shiro shook his head, but it was good-natured.

            “I’m sorry I missed your graduation, Lance,” he said.

            Lance waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a busy season.”

            “Oh, here,” Keith said, holding out the baseball cap and card. “These are from us.”

            Accepting the gift, Shiro blushed. “We don’t even know if I got in yet,” he whispered.

            “You’re gonna get in,” Keith replied, laughing. “They wanted to _poach_ you from the Master’s program, they’ll take you now.”

            “Takashi.”

            Though Lance did not recognize the voice, it caused an immediate change in Adam, Shiro, and Keith. It was almost like time stopped for a second. All of them went rigid. Keith went pale. Lance turned around and found two people standing a few feet behind them. One a middle-aged man with glasses and dark hair streaked with silver. The other a tall, slender woman whose expression was as severe as the tight bun her brown hair had been pulled into. Both wore black. Both looked vaguely like Shiro.

            Keith’s parents.

            “Mom, Dad,” Shiro said, breaking the time-stop. He stepped forward as if to guide Keith to them, but he didn’t really get the chance. Keith grabbed Lance’s hand and swept off. “Keith—”

            But Keith didn’t reply. He just kept walking—well, not so much walking as clearing a warpath. He flew down the steps with Lance stumbling behind him and immediately rounded the building to head for the Suzuki.

            “Keith!” Shiro called.

            Again, Keith stayed silent. His jaw clenched so tight, he probably couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted to. He picked up the pace. His hand started to tremble around Lance’s wrist.

            Lance forced him to stop once they made it to the strip of trees and green space behind the building. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but quickly forgot even what the question was as he saw the state Keith was in. He looked about three seconds shy of throwing up, his face completely drained of color. Rapid, shallow breaths huffed in and out through his nose. He was _shaking_ —like his whole body was vibrating with absolute fear.

            “Woah, hey, okay. Babe. Breathe.”

            Keith swallowed, but the pace of his breathing increased. He was gonna hyperventilate.

            “Not like that.” Lance put his hands on either side of Keith’s face. “Look at me.”

            Keith didn’t react. It was like he couldn’t hear anything. Scared, Lance smoothed his thumbs across Keith’s cheekbones and pulled him into a hug.

            “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Hey, it’s okay.”

            The situation was anything but okay. Keith hadn’t seen or spoken to his parents in three years. Three. Years. Though Lance lacked all the details, he knew they’d parted on really bad terms. _They_ hadn’t looked surprised to see Keith here today, whereas Keith had been caught completely off-guard.

            “Keith!”

            At the sound of Shiro’s voice, Keith tore himself away from Lance and stalked down the sidewalk. Lance glanced between the two of them as Shiro approached at a jog, then opted to follow after Keith. Lance had never seen Shiro look so desperate.

            “Keith, please—”

            Keith whirled around.

            “ _Get the fuck away from me, Takashi._ ”

            Shiro startled to a halt. Keith fixed him with a stare that could have stopped a heart.

            “You told me they wouldn’t be here today. You told me they weren’t coming.”

            “Keith—”

            “ _NO!_ ” Keith shouted, loud and powerful and terrifying. Tears filled his eyes, but he pushed them down fiercely. “I don’t give a fuck what you have to say, Takashi. You _lied_ to me. You fucking lied. I know you want everything to be okay between me and them but you don’t fucking get it, do you?” Straightening, Keith pointed back over Shiro’s shoulder toward Quintessence Hall. “Go tell them you’re gay.”

            Shiro stiffened.

            “ _GO!_ ”

            That time, the sound came out harsh and shredded. Shiro stood still. Keith huffed and shook his head.

            “Until you experience the bullshit I took from them, the fucking _bullet_ I took for you, don’t you _dare_ interfere in my relationship with those people. Because you don’t. Fucking. Under. Stand.”

            Keith let out a frustrated snarl, like he was mad at himself for being on the verge of tears, then turned and headed for his motorcycle. Shiro glanced at Lance, his expression seeking sympathy, but Lance didn’t know what to think anymore. He shook his head and hurried after Keith.

            Shiro didn’t follow.

            Lance caught up with Keith at the Suzuki. He was fighting the lock on the bike chain that secured their helmets, but he couldn’t get the key to turn and couldn’t untangle the chain well enough to get a better angle on the lock. Growling, Keith hurled the key at the gutter where it bounced off the concrete and landed in the grass. Then he thumped down on the curb and put his face in his hands.

            After retrieving the key, Lance took a careful seat next to him.

            “You can’t drive like this, babe.”

            Keith’s head popped up. “ _You wanna fucking do it?_ ”

            Lance jolted, and Keith’s expression shifted immediately to deep remorse. His nose wrinkled and his bottom lip trembled, and Lance didn’t hesitate to take him into his arms.

            “That’s okay,” he said. “Hey, it’s okay.”

            “I’m sorry,” Keith blubbered, finally breaking down.

            Lance shook his head and kissed the top of Keith’s. “Don’t be. It’s okay.”

            Tightening his grip, Lance rubbed Keith’s arm and hugged him close. Keith tucked his face against Lance’s neck. His tears were cold on Lance’s skin.

            After a moment, voice soft, Lance asked, “You wanna talk about what just happened?”

            Keith sniffed. “I don’t know where to start.”

            Lance leaned back to lift Keith’s chin and touch a kiss to his mouth. His lips were salty.

            “Wherever you want,” Lance replied.

            Keith was quiet for a long time. Lance didn’t prompt him. He simply sat and supported Keith’s weight, brushed his fingers up and down his arm. Luckily, few people had decided to park behind Quintessence Hall for the ceremony, so the road and sidewalk were quiet. Lance resisted the urge to lean back and check if Shiro was still there.

            “Um,” Keith said, reaching up to wipe his nose, “so I told you about how Shiro and I came out to each other when I was in high school?”

            Lance nodded. He remembered. Shiro had just moved out and started college, and Keith had been nervous to confide in him, because coming out was terrifying, so when he told Shiro and Shiro replied that he was also gay, Keith had thought he was making fun of him and tried to wrestle him and lost.

            “Neither of us told our parents because we knew they wouldn’t take it well,” Keith said. “We were already pretty good at keeping secrets from them, especially me, but by the time I started at New Altea, I was kind of sick of hiding, you know?”

            “Yeah, definitely.” Lance had reached that stage, too.

            “So I talked to Takashi and told him I wanted to come out to them, and he said he wanted to, too, and we agreed that I would go first because I was already the screw-up black sheep in their eyes, and they reacted…worse than either of us imagined. They kicked me out of the house, publicly disowned me. Told me I could ‘be their son again’ if I went to conversion therapy.”

            “ _Jesus._ ”

            “Yeah. And after seeing how they treated me, Takashi decided not to tell them. I was pretty bitter about it.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “I guess I still am.”

            Keith sat up and glanced at Lance and shrugged. Lance tilted his head.

            “By then I’d gotten in contact with Krolia and she’d taken me in, so I decided just to cut my parents out of my life. Dropped out of school, you know the rest.”

            Lance startled. “I thought you dropped out because you hated composition and couldn’t manage the double major?”

            Keith swallowed.

            “I thought you stopped talking to your parents because they were mad that you _dropped out_ , not—Keith…” Lance cupped his hands around Keith’s face and lifted it to look into his eyes. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

            Keith shook his head. “I don’t like talking about it. Not your fault.”

            Lance could only purse his lips and frown. He didn’t like this information. He didn’t like learning that Keith’s parents had ousted him for something completely outside of Keith’s control. Being angry at your kid for making choices you didn’t like, still shitty, but more reasonable than being angry at your kid for being gay. He’d always kind of figured that Keith just hadn’t fit in at New Altea, that his parents had forced him to be there, and dropping out had been a stick-it-to-the-man move. Now he got the feeling that all the shit that had gone down with his family might have been the reason Keith had gotten overwhelmed and quit.

            “Okay,” Lance said, standing up and offering Keith a hand. “We’re gonna walk to Sal’s and order a big-ass pizza and a whole lotta beer and make the cashier give us all their quarters so we can have complete control of the jukebox until we’re sober again. Sound good?”

            Keith took his hand and let Lance pull him to his feet. “Yeah,” he said.

            “Good.”

            Lance slung an arm around Keith’s shoulders as they started off and pulled the guy close so he could kiss his temple. “I love you, you hear me?”

            Keith reached up to lace his fingers with Lance’s over his shoulder.

            “I hear you,” he replied.

            Lance pressed another kiss to his forehead.

 

**

 

Now that school was out, Upright & Respectable had a little more time to practice. Rehearsals between nine people were a bitch to coordinate, but they had one standing appointment at least—ten AM Saturday mornings at Blade Base.

            Matt, Rizavi, Griffin, Kinkade, Leifsdottir, Pidge, Rax, and Shay all showed up on time and shuffled around the stage, messing with the drum kit and piano to get them into position, assembling their other instruments. The group chatted while they worked, catching each other up on their weeks and congratulating Matt and Lance on graduation.

            “Oh, I meant to ask,” Matt said as he dropped his mouthpiece into his trombone, “how was Shiro’s thing?”

            Lance pulled a face that instantly garnered Pidge’s attention.

            “What happened?” she asked. “Did he fall down? Did they mispronounce his name?”

            “No, um…we ran into Keith’s parents after.”

            Pidge’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my god…”

            “Wait, like, _parents_ parents? Like, ‘we haven’t spoken in years’ parents?” Matt asked.

            Lance nodded.

            Kinkade let out a low whistle. Matt and Pidge exchanged glances. Shay came over and put a hand on Lance’s shoulder.

            “Is Keith okay?” she asked.

            Shaking his head, Lance shrugged. “Not really. I guess Shiro told him they weren’t going to be there, and then they were. It was pretty bad…” The image of a pale, trembling Keith came to mind and Lance frowned. Shay returned the expression.

            “I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s all right,” Lance replied. “It’s in the past, at least.” He offered her a smile, then turned to the group. “You guys ready to warm up?”

            Everybody nodded, so Lance went to the piano and started playing scales. The others followed him for a bit, then broke off to do their thing.

            The group had really come together over the last four months. Pidge had picked up saxophone pretty smoothly with Kinkade’s help. Shay was a perfect foil for Griffin, patient and flexible. Rax’s percussive ability was honestly startling given how quiet the guy was, and though it had take him a while to get used to criticism, he had warmed. Leifsdottir—well, she was maybe the most bizarre individual Lance had ever met, but she was easy to work with and gifted.

            After warmups, they got down to business practicing their set for Blade Base that week. They performed Wednesday nights. The crowd was usually good, and the weekend slots were reserved for rock and pop, so Lance wasn’t complaining, but he _had_ started to wonder what they could do to move forward. Move up.

            They messed around with a couple improv sets to finish, which was really where Upright & Respectable shined. The group had worked out a great give-and-take. Everybody lit up during improv, but improv was not a thing most people who came to Blade Base enjoyed, so they’d never really done it on stage.

            Griffin approached Lance after practice finished and everybody started to pack up.

            “What are your intentions for the band now that you’ve graduated?” he asked, tone and expression matter-of-fact.

            Lance laughed. “Truth be told, I want this to be my full-time job,” he replied. The answer seemed to both surprise and satisfy Griffin. “I’m open to suggestions, if you have any ideas on how to do that.”

            Nodding, considering, Griffin looked down. He still had a year left at New Altea, as did Pidge. Rizavi and Shay and Leifsdottir had just been accepted as freshman to start next fall. Matt was going back for a Master’s in music teaching. Kinkade worked two jobs, and Rax worked three. Honestly, making the band a full-time thing probably wouldn’t happen, at least not anytime soon, but Lance wasn’t anywhere near ready to throw in the towel.

            “I’ll give it some thought,” Griffin said.

            “Thanks,” Lance said. “And thanks for being here.”

            A flicker of a smile passed across Griffin’s face, and he nodded before stepping away. No sooner had he moved than Rizavi bounded up to the piano bench and plopped next to Lance.

            “Okay, so, I have to register for fall by the end of the month, and Matt refuses to tell me what professors are crazy and which classes are good and can you please, _please_ help me?” She clapped her hands together over her heart and pouted her lips.

            “Sure,” Lance chuckled. “I’ve got stuff through the weekend, but maybe Monday?”

            He didn’t really have stuff, but he _was_ worried about Keith. They were both early risers, but Keith hadn’t gotten up that morning before Lance had left.

            Rizavi threw her arms around his neck. “ _Thank you!_ ”

            “Anytime, Rizzo.”

            She zipped away to rub Lance’s help in Matt’s face. Lance stood, and Rax waved him over to the drum kit as soon as his feet had hit the stage.

            “Our family is having a barbecue with the Garretts this afternoon,” Rax whispered, apparently trying to keep it a secret from the others. “I’m sure you and Keith would be welcome to come. If you feel like that would help…”

            Lance tilted his head in a grateful smile. Compassion really did just run in Rax’s family.

            “I’ll ask Keith, but I wouldn’t plan on us,” he replied. “I think he kinda wants to be alone right now, but maybe getting out of the house would be good.”

            Rax nodded. He understood.

            “Let Shay know,” he said. “If you decide to come.”

            “I will.”

            Lance moved away and finally made it to his bag. He took a long drink from his water bottle to start with, then checked his phone. The McClain family group chat had exploded with discussion over Sunday dinner. Rolo had texted him to ask how many hours a week Lance wanted on the new schedule he was writing. No word from Keith, but a missed call and voicemail from Coran of all people.

            Lance lifted his phone to his ear to listen.

            “Hello, Lance, this is Dr. Smythe—or Coran, now, I suppose—regardless, I wasn’t certain if you had my phone number, but you do now, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? On to business. A friend of mine from the old days recently moved back to Altea, and he’s opening a jazz club. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Blue? No? Either way, he asked if I might know any wind musicians who would be interested in auditioning, and I remembered that you and some of the other students started that jazz band last winter, so I mentioned you and he seemed quite keen on bringing you in for a test. I guess he knows how good my students are, hm?”

            Coran’s recorded voice laughed, and then started rambling about how if Lance wanted to get in contact, he could call back and ask for details, but Lance wasn’t really paying attention.

            A jazz club?

            In Altea?

            _Auditions?_

            “Oh my god.”

            Half the group had left by then, only Leifsdottir and Kinkade having stayed behind with Matt and Pidge who were waiting to give Lance a ride home. All four of them turned to look when Lance spoke.

            “Everything okay?” Kinkade asked, legitimately concerned.

            “Keith?” Leifsdottir guessed, but Lance waved for both of them to be quiet as he listened to Coran’s message again.

            Nothing changed.

            “ _Holy shit._ ”

            “Lance, you’re freaking me out,” Pidge said. “You gotta talk, my dude.”

            “Listen, listen,” Lance replied, breathless, hitting the replay button followed by the speaker. He turned the volume up, and everybody leaned in.

            His heart beat so hard as he watched them take in the information. When Coran got to the part about auditioning for his old friend, all four of them straightened up. Pidge grabbed Matt’s arm. Kinkade’s mouth fell open as he laughed. Leifsdottir nodded appreciatively. As soon as the message ended, Pidge grabbed Lance instead.

            “Call him back! Call him back!” she shrieked.

            “Should I?” Lance replied, giddy. His arms tingled into numbness like they’d floated away. Pidge shook him heartily.

            “ _Yes!_ ”

            Lance glanced at the others, and they nodded too, so he dialed Coran’s number and listened to it ring. He held his breath, prepping his message, trying to chill out and sound cool, sound professional, but then the line clicked and Coran boomed into the receiver.

            “Ah, Mr. McClain! I’m ever so glad you called. Did you get my message?”

            “Yes,” Lance squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I got it. Thank you, Dr. Smythe—”

            “Coran.”

            “Oh, um, Coran. _Thank you_. Yeah, I’m actually with a few members of the band right now. Um, we’d _love_ to audition for your friend. I can’t believe you thought of me.”

            “You’re a wonderful musician, Lance. Of course I thought of you.”

            Lance’s heart swelled.

            “I’ll pass along Blaytz’s information, then. Would a text be all right?”

            “Yeah, definitely. More than all right _._ ”

           “Now, he’s a bit of a strange one. Has his own way about things. He’ll probably ask to meet with you, Lance, before auditioning the band. He likes to make sure he’ll get along with his band leaders. So don’t be put off if he asks you to coffee.”

            “I won’t. Thank you, Dr. Smythe.”

            “Coran,” he chuckled.

            “Coran, sorry.”

            “Not a problem at all. Bye-bye, now.”

            “Bye…”

            Coran disconnected and Lance looked up at his bandmates in awe. Two seconds later his phone buzzed with the contact info. All five of them screamed.

 

Pidge did not shut up the whole drive to the Avenues. She made Lance walk her through exactly what he was going to say to this Blaytz character when he called, and made him repeat it like a thousand times. The only thing with the power to stop her was the sight of Keith in front of the house carrying the entire kitchen table to the curb by himself. She rolled down her window to wolf whistle at him.

            “Who gave you permission to be that pretty?” she called.

            Keith looked up with a grin and a laugh, shielding his eyes from the sun. He had on a pair of workout shorts and a t-shirt and, by the size of the junk pile on the curb, had been at this activity for a while.

            “Who gave _you_ permission to be that charming?” he replied.

            Pidge leaned her head back to look at her brother. “Hear that, Matt? I’m _charming._ ”

            Matt gave her a hearty shove. Lance got out of the car as the wrestling match ensued.

            “What are you doing?” he asked Keith, shouldering his bag of sheet music and junk.

            “Spring cleaning,” Keith replied.

            “Okay, but where are we supposed to eat?”

            He hopped up onto the curb and accepted the hello kiss Keith leaned over to give him. Lance put an arm around his back and looked at the collection of stuff, mostly the table.

            “I got a new one,” Keith replied.

            “From _where?_ ”

            “Ryner,” Keith said. “The tenants in that house she owns up the street abandoned the property and she said we could have whatever we wanted if I clean it.”

            “Sheesh,” Lance replied.

            “I’ll need your help bringing the new table over. And the couch.”

           Startling, Lance looked down. Keith grinned at him. While Lance was thrilled at the prospect of a new couch, the timing seemed strangely coincidental. And Keith seemed unnaturally perky.

            “Wait, are you getting rid of all this stuff?” Pidge asked, sticking her rumpled head out the window. Keith nodded. “Can I have that desk lamp?”

            Keith chuckled and picked it up and passed it to her through the window. Pidge cradled it on her lap and giggled like a gremlin. Then she slapped Matt across the shoulder and shouted, “Quick! Before he changes his mind!” and Matt gunned it, so they took off down the street. Keith laughed, watching them go.

            “How are you?” Lance asked. He ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of Keith’s neck. Keith nodded, and together they started across the lawn.

            “Okay,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “How was practice?”

            “Oh my god, I have to tell you. Coran hooked me up with some old buddy of his who’s opening a jazz club.”

            “ _Seriously?_ That’s great! Oh my god.”

            Keith drew him to a stop so they could hug. Stomach flipping, Lance hugged him back.

            “I haven’t called yet, but hopefully it’ll go well.”

            “You’ll knock it out of the park.”

            Linking their hands as they separated, Keith led him back to their apartment. The inside looked like a bomb had gone off. Every last kitchen cabinet was open, most of their contents spread across the counter. The containers in the instrument corner were open and spilling various cords and things all over the floor. Alongside them was a half-assembled shelving rack. The couch had been pushed to one side of the room, and a stack of assorted knickknacks and other objects sat in the center of the rug.

            “Keith, what on _earth?_ ”

            “You have to make a mess first, you know?”

            “Not in _every_ part of the house all at once.”

            “I don’t want you to feel like the space doesn’t belong to you,” Keith replied. The tone of his voice turned a little dark.

            Chewing his bottom lip, Lance looked at Keith. He knew it wouldn’t help to tell him that he liked the space just fine, that he wasn’t fussy, that he was sure he’d settle, that he’d spent countless hours practically living there before even considering moving in. Keith was stubborn, but Keith was also more considerate than anyone gave him credit for. So Lance pulled him closer and pecked a kiss on his lips instead.

            “I appreciate it. How can I help?”

            “Can you finish that rack?” Keith asked without a second thought. “It’s for the instruments.”

            “Sure thing,” Lance replied.

            He gave Keith’s hand a squeeze and put his bag down before getting started. Keith turned on some music, then resumed whatever he’d been doing in the kitchen. Lance noticed he had the box of Lance’s kitchen items open at his feet.

            “What did Coran say about this jazz club guy?”

            “Not much,” Lance replied. He sat down and glanced over the abandoned assembly instructions for the shelving unit. “Just that he was a little strange and would want to meet with me before agreeing to audition the band. Oh, and the club’s called Blue.”

            “Sounds swanky.”

            “I know.”

            “Do you know where it’s gonna be?”

            Lance shook his head. “Somewhere downtown, I’d think. I’ll ask Blaytz when I call.”

            Keith nodded, and the pair of them settled into companionable silence to work. Lance kept an eye on Keith as best he could while building a shelving rack. Keith moved with speed and accuracy like some kind of cleaning machine. It was almost…manic. Like he had some massive store of energy he needed to burn off. Before too long, he’d finished wiping down and reorganizing half the kitchen cabinets—and sorting Lance’s plates and things into the mix.

            About an hour later, Keith’s phone rang. By then Lance was sorting amp cords, so he scooted over to grab the phone off the couch and pass it to Keith.

            “If it’s Shiro again, I don’t want to talk,” Keith said without turning around.

            Lance looked at the screen. It _was_ Shiro. Pursing his lips, he let the phone ring until it went to voicemail. As the screen changed to the standard time display, Lance saw that Shiro had already called three times that day. His own phone went off two seconds later.

            “He’s calling you now?” Keith snorted, tone harsh.

            Lance fished his phone from his bag. _Mr. Margaritaville_ scrolled across the screen.

            “It’s Coran,” he lied, getting up and heading for the door. “Just coincidence. I’ll be right back…” He made sure he was at the top of the back stairs before he answered. “Hello?”

            “Oh, thank god,” Shiro breathed, his breath huffing across the receiver. “Lance, are you with Keith?”

            Lance swished his way across the grass in the backyard all the way to the fence and Ryner’s little vegetable garden. “Yeah, I am,” he replied.

            “Is he okay?”

            “No?”

            Obviously, Shiro hadn’t wanted that to be the answer, so he didn’t respond. Lance let him suffer in that silence for a second, mostly out of spite. Maybe Shiro didn’t deserve it—god knows he was probably punishing himself enough already—but Lance was upset with him, and he wanted him to know it.

            “Did you actually lie to him about yesterday, Shiro?” he asked.

            “About our parents?”

            “Yeah.”

            Shiro sighed. “They want to reconnect with him, Lance. Especially our dad.”

            “So tell them to call!”

            “Keith would never answer!”

            “And you think there’s a better chance of that _now?_ ”

            Again, Shiro stayed silent because he didn’t like the answer. Lance took a seat on the edge of a raised garden bed.

            “The move you pulled was super shitty, Shiro,” he said. “I’ve never seen Keith like that, and I know I haven’t known him as long, but… I mean, _you_ saw him. He was, like…like the life got sucked out of him, I don’t know.”

            “I know, I just…” A long pause. “I want things to be all right between them.”

            “I don’t think that’s really your call.”

            “Lance—”

            “No, I get it, man. It sucks to be the one in the middle. It sucks to see people you love fight, but you can’t, like, make decisions for them. From what it sounds like, and from what I _saw_ , your parents hurt Keith really bad. Like, _really_ bad. And I know you want things to be okay, but you can’t decide when Keith’s ready. You don’t _get_ to decide that, Shiro.”

            Quiet.

            Quiet.

            Then, “You’re right.”

            Lance let out a small sigh of relief.

            “I want to apologize to him, I want to explain…”

            “I wouldn’t bother explaining. It’s only going to sound like excuses.”

            Shiro chuckled, but there wasn’t any mirth in it.

            “He’ll come around when he’s ready to yell at you again, and you can apologize then.”

            Lance listened as Shiro shuffled around on his end. Jesus, the guy must have felt like shit. Lance would have had _he_ been the cause of Keith’s breakdown yesterday. There was no way Shiro didn’t realize what he’d done. Otherwise he wouldn’t have tried to call so many times.

            “I don’t know what to do, Lance.”

            “You don’t have to do anything, Shiro. Let Keith figure it out.”

            Shiro sighed, and Lance imagined him shaking his head. “You’re right… You’re right. Thank you.”

            “Sure.”

            “I’ll…wait for him to call me back.”

            “Good plan.”

            Another sigh, then Shiro said goodbye and they hung up. Lance lingered outside for a little bit, taking in the sun. Thinking. His own life could have been totally different if his parents hadn’t accepted him when he’d come out. His heart twisted over how much that would hurt. Granted, Teresa and Ramón were totally different people to begin with than—

            “Oh. Shit.”

            He didn’t even know Keith’s parents’ names. Keith had literally never said them. Lance couldn’t resist texting Shiro to ask.

 

                        _Annette and Akihiro. Why?_

 

 _Nothing, thanks,_ was Lance’s quick reply.

            He went back inside, then. Puzzling.

            “What did Coran say?” Keith asked.

            Lance startled. “Oh. He just wanted to check that I got the info he sent. And then…you know…he’s kinda chatty, so…”

            Chuckling, Keith nodded. Lance got back to work sorting amp cords, trying to decide if he’d been hypocritical or not.

           

By the time Krolia rolled in for the evening, Lance and Keith had largely finished the common space. The kitchen was spotless, the instruments stacked on their new shelf. The pair of them was halfway up the stairs with the old couch when Krolia got out of her van.

            “What the hell are you hooligans doing with our sofa?”

            “Got a new one, Mama,” Keith replied. He muttered, “Keep going, keep going,” at Lance when they reached the top of the stairs as Lance had tried to set it down to take a break, so they cruised by Krolia, Lance’s fingers screaming. “We’re taking this one to the curb. Can we borrow the van?”

            Krolia blinked at him. “Sure—what—Lance, knees, love. Not your back.”

            She hopped on to take some of the weight at Lance’s end, and Lance heaved a sigh of relief. Together, the three of them carted the couch to the curb and set it down.

            “Where’s this new couch coming from, then?” Krolia asked.

            “The Fletchers abandoned their property. I’m cleaning it in exchange for furniture.”

            “Oh, shit, we get the _Fletchers’_ couch?” She put her hand up and the pair of them high fived aggressively. “Good trade, baby.”

            “Thanks. You wanna go with me to pick it up?”

            “Hell yeah I do. Right now?”

            “I’ve got the keys.” Keith patted the pocket on his shorts.

            “Bitchin.”

            Krolia trotted up the gravel drive like she hadn’t just spent eight hours at work. She made a living laying backing tracks on rhythm guitar for this little recording studio in the city, a fact Lance had only learned just recently. Kinda like Keith’s parents’ names. Weird how stuff like that could slip through the cracks.

            “Why don’t you start on our room, Boy Scout? Krolia and I can get the couch and table.”

            “There are better ways to say ‘you’re bad at carrying furniture and my mom is stronger than you,’” Lance replied.

            “If you wanna learn to be a roadie, I can hook you up,” Krolia called.

            Lance laughed. “Tempting.”

            When he glanced at Keith, Keith’s brows drew together, so Lance offered him a reassuring smile.

            “You go snag us some furniture. I’m happy to start our room.”

            He was not, but that was beside the point. Keith wanted to clean today, so Lance would clean. If he wanted their room picked over and rearranged, Lance would pick and rearrange until there was nothing left. Or, at the very least, until Keith had worked through the bullshit from yesterday. Lance gave him a kiss on the cheek.

            “I’ll help you guys unload when you get back.”

            “Beep, beep,” Krolia hollered from the van as she backed out. “We’ve got a ten o’clock set tonight, baby. Let’s get a move on.”

            Laughing, Keith rounded the front of the car and got in. Lance gave him a thumbs up as Krolia backed the rest of the way down the drive. He let his breath out, though, once they’d gone up the street.

            He just—jesus, he was at a total loss on how to help.

            He was also at a loss on where to begin with the bedroom, so he stood and stared at it for a couple of minutes before deciding to strip the bed. He put the sheets in the wash, then dusted. After dragging in one of his boxes from the living room, he found homes for his little knickknacks among Keith’s collection of clutter, then grabbed his box of shoes and stacked those in the closet, but the room didn’t really feel any different, and Lance knew Keith was after _different._

Time to rearrange the furniture, he guessed.

            Though Lance didn’t consider himself in possession of a spatially-oriented mind, he _was_ good at Tetris, so he didn’t doubt that he could get all the furniture to fit if he moved it. He’d put the head of the bed on the wall adjacent to the closet and shift the bookshelf down, move the turntable next to the bed—maybe the Fletchers had a cool bedside table set… He sent a quick text to Keith, then got down to business.

            The smaller pieces were easier to move on his own, and Lance was annoyed Keith wasn’t there to watch him redeem himself. When it came to the bed, however, the frame got stuck the second Lance pulled it away from the wall.

            “Of course,” he grumbled, getting on his knees to look underneath.

            Unsurprisingly, a massive tangle of black clothes had nested under the bed—along with a collection of high heels and a couple of jackets. Lance fished them out and tossed them on the bed for Keith to sort through later. Behind all the clothes, however, were two big, flat storage containers. Curious, he slid one out.

            Dust coated the lid. Inside, he found stacks and stacks of notes and sheet music, class syllabi, and textbooks. Keith’s materials from New Altea.

            “Oh my god…”

            Given the sheer quantity of paper, Lance had to assume this was _everything_. Every test, every essay. Lance reached for the other container and pulled it out, thinking he’d find more of the same, but that one held something different.

            Original compositions.

            Lance’s jaw dropped. The container was _full._ He knew Keith’s notation as well as he knew his own, and a quick sift through the copious amount of staff paper revealed that very notation all over it. Song after song. A sprawling seventy-page cantata. Bits and pieces of movements for complete orchestras. He couldn’t believe how _much_ there was.

            A particular book at the bottom caught his attention—leather-bound red cover, thick, worn. He picked it up and flipped it open.

            The notation in the book was different from the rest of the container. It looked like rock music, but, like, art rock or maybe pop rock or baroque pop. Lance couldn’t quite make sense of Keith’s scrawled notes. The book held maybe ten or fifteen songs, but none of them were complete and several had multiple titles. Only one had lyrics.

            _Heartsleeves_

            Lance glanced over the words.

_I used to show you_

_How I felt_

_Who I was_

_What I thought_

_I used to show you_

_My heart_

_Wore it on my sleeve_

_Nothing to hide_

_Unclassified_

_An open book_

_I told you what to read_

_And where to look_

_But  you picked me up and slammed me shut_

_And judged me by my cover_

_Because you didn’t think you’d like what my book was about_

_You shut me out_

_I used to show you_

_How I felt_

_Who I was_

_What I thought_

_I used to show you_

_My heart_

_Wore it on my sleeve_

_Nothing to hide_

_Unclassified_

_So I cut the cloth_

_(We’re not cut from the same cloth)_

_Scissors and slicing and tearing through fabric_

_A feeble attempt at self-preservation in panic_

_I threw my sleeves away_

_Heart and all_

_And you wonder why I don’t call_

_I won’t show you_

_How I feel_

_Who I am_

_What I think_

_Won’t wear my heart on my sleeve_

_Everything to hide_

_I’m classified_

_But the book’s still there_

_With the heart I used to wear_

_A phantom feeling of sleeves upon my skin_

_Would I let you in?_

 

            That was all there was, though the instrumental continued for another page before petering out. Lance read the lyrics again and again, matching them with the notes and trying to make mental music from Keith’s marks. He was certain he wasn’t doing the song justice, but even a rough approximation sounded incredible in his head.

            He’d had no idea Keith could compose like this. Arrangements, sure, but _composition?_

Bewildered, Lance sat and cradled the red book in his lap.

            After a few minutes, he forced himself to his feet and finished moving the bed. He secured the lids on both containers and slid them underneath. Then he fiddled with the rest of the furniture on autopilot, trying a couple combinations until he heard the van pull up outside. He went to meet Keith and Krolia.

            “What did you want bedside tables for?” Keith asked, disembarking the vehicle and opening the back.

            “You’ll see,” Lance replied.

            Keith hauled a bedside table from the van the next second—some super fancy contemporary piece that was like a thick slab of marble with metal wires underneath for legs. He passed it to Lance, so Lance hurried down to put it next to the bed in their room. It actually looked pretty damn cool. He went back for the other one and arranged Keith’s record player and a couple other knickknacks on the pair, then made the bed while Keith and Krolia unloaded the couch and table.

            “We’re ready for your help now, Boy Scout—oh my god.”

            Lance turned and found Keith in the doorway. His mouth was hanging open.

            “Surprise,” Lance said, lifting his arms wide to display his work.

            Keith laughed—shocked, but happy—his eyes sparkling like one of those people on a home makeover show.

            “Oh my god, it’s _great!_ It’s like a whole new room!”

            “You like it?”

            “I _love_ it.” He pecked a kiss on Lance’s cheek and wrapped his arms around his neck in a hug, still laughing. “Look at us, real adults with our bed in the center of the wall.”

            Lance chuckled. He could have held onto Keith longer, but Keith slipped away to take himself on a little tour of the room, pointing out Lance’s things and saying they should get a picture of the two of them for the new bedside table. Lance smiled until Keith located the pile of clothes and shoes that had been under the bed. Keith gasped.

            “Where did you find these?” he asked, sorting with eager hands.

            “Under the bed,” Lance squeaked. He braced himself for Keith’s reaction, but the guy only nodded, not fazed in the least. He gasped again.

            “My fishnets!”

            Keith flew to the closet the next second and grabbed a pair of shiny, black high-waisted shorts, a couple of shirts, and his combat boots. Then he started stripping out of his clothes like the door wasn’t open and Lance wasn’t standing right there.

            “Different kinds of naked, Keith!” Lance shouted, blushing.

            But Keith just laughed and pulled on the fishnets, heedless of however long it had been since they’d been washed. He tossed on the shorts and a shirt and swept over to the closet to check his reflection in full-length mirror on the back of the door. Krolia poked her head into the room two seconds later.

            “Y’all want me to levitate the damn couch down here with my mind powers? Come on!”

            Lance and Keith scrambled from the room and up the stairs, Krolia at their heels. Together, the three of them hauled the pieces of the new couch—an immaculate white leather sectional—into their basement apartment, struggling around the corners. The table went next, and by then they had to abandon the furniture to get to Blade Base on time.

            At the club, Lance parted ways with Keith at the dressing room, then made his way through the halls to the employee door, from there to their usual table. Unsurprisingly, Matt and Pidge were already seated, a few empty glasses between them.

            “You just missed Romelle,” Pidge said, clapping Lance on the shoulder as he sat.

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah, she was on one. Apparently Keith changed their entire set last-minute?”

            “ _What?_ When last-minute?”

            Pidge shrugged. “She just said ‘today.’”

            Lance blinked. That wasn’t like Keith. That wasn’t like Keith _at all._ Matt and Pidge moved on to other things, namely pestering Lance about calling Blaytz, but he ignored them for the most part. Cleaning. Refusing to take Shiro’s calls. Changing Luxite’s set. Lance might have been puzzled by the behavior if he didn’t know the exact root of it.

            When the lights dimmed and Luxite took to the stage, the energy was different, but it wasn’t exactly bad. Lance knew Romelle well enough by then to recognize that she was nervous. He didn’t blame her. The set was keyboard-heavy. He wondered how long they’d been rehearsing these particular songs. Though, as the set progressed, he did not wonder why Keith had decided to play them.

            Supertramp’s “The Logical Song”. “King of Pain” by The Police. Pink Floyd and “Hey You”. The somber set hurt to watch, knowing what Lance knew. It was crazy to think how differently he might have perceived the performance six months ago.

            Keith was still a sexpot. It was impossible for him to play without passion, without his whole body and his whole heart. He was still so goddamn beautiful on that stage, so unreasonably talented that Lance honestly couldn’t comprehend what he was still doing playing in a cover band every other weekend.

            Then Luxite played a song Lance had never heard. Matt did, though. He leaned over and claimed two points with, “Cyndi Lauper. ‘Hat Full of Stars’. Dunno the album.”

            Lance just nodded.

            The song was a major departure from Luxite’s usual style, and Lance was certain it was the main reason behind Romelle’s nerves. And seeing Keith sing it, well…Lance’s throat cinched tight in his neck, but he forced himself not to cry.

            After that, the set bumped back toward the expected—the songs seemed so joyful, almost triumphant in comparison.

            Lance would have been lying if he’d said it wasn’t a relief.

            Back at home, in their reorganized room, as he unbuttoned those shorts and slipped off the fishnets and fell into bed with Keith, as he pressed him into clean sheets and their mattress, buried his nose against his neck and grazed his skin with his teeth—Lance couldn’t help thinking of all that music underneath the bed. As he pushed himself inside Keith for the _n_ th time, and Keith sang one of his gorgeous notes of pleasure—Lance couldn’t help thinking how much he loved him.

            And how much he had yet to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luxite Set ([playlist link](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi8jFo752UlAywp7oktWK6Uk2uglY5_Wv))  
> I'll Wait - Van Halen  
> The Logical Song - Supertramp  
> King of Pain - The Police  
> Hey You - Pink Floyd  
> Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God) - Kate Bush  
> Can't Find My Way Home - Blind Faith  
> Hat Full of Stars - Cyndi Lauper  
> Any Colour - Cutting Crew  
> Never Get Old - David Bowie  
> Hotel California - Eagles
> 
> You gotta listen to this set, I'm telling you.


	2. Variation One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI!! Finally, finally, I have more to share. Buckle your seat belts, though, folks. This chapter's rough.
> 
> I swear, on my whole heart and all that is good in the world, that things _will_ get better for our boy. Big promise.
> 
> Playlist for this chapter's set in the end notes!

The McClains were in the backyard when Lance and Keith arrived for Sunday dinner. They raised the traditional welcome shout—some from the porch, some from the outdoor table, some from around the grill, some from a game of ladder toss on the lawn. Laughing, waving, Lance greeted them back. At his side, though quiet, Keith finally relaxed.

            He’d been running in and out of the house for hours, going to and from Ryner’s other rental property. Now that _their_ place was clean and organized, he’d turned his attention elsewhere, but had made sure Lance had unpacked the last of his boxes first.

            “Tío Keith!” Silvio called. He scrambled from the picnic table and dashed straight for them. “Can I show you the song I’ve been practicing?”

            Keith smiled for the first time Lance had seen all day. “Absolutely.”

            “I’ll go get my guitar!”

            Silvio hurried up the porch steps, headed for the sliding glass door. He nearly collided with Teresa coming out, but she dodged, lifting the bowls of chips and salsa in her hands high above his head. She spotted Lance and Keith and smiled knowingly.

            “Guitar?” she guessed, setting the bowls on the table.

            “Yeah,” Keith chuckled.

            “You have to start letting us pay you for his lessons, _lindo_ ,” Teresa continued. An apologetic expression flickered across her face as she stepped up and drew Keith into an embrace.

            “I have to do no such thing,” Keith replied.

            He returned her hug like he was starving for it and holding back. Teresa, being Teresa, sensed this and held onto him longer. She stroked his hair, squeezed him tight, even took his face in her hands and patted his cheek when they separated. One look in Keith’s eyes, and she pulled him in for another hug.

            “Is everything okay with you, _lindo_? _Pareces en candela._ ”

            _You look like you were burned._

Keith didn’t understand the idiom, but Lance did, so whenTeresa raised her eyes to look at him over Keith’s shoulder, Lance pursed his lips and nodded. Teresa frowned. Turning her face to the side, she kissed Keith’s cheek. It was then Silvio emerged with his guitar, so Teresa let go and nudged Keith toward the porch. He went, and she lingered at Lance’s side.

            “Can you tell me what happened?” she whispered, her eyes tracking Keith.

            Lance shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t ask me not to talk about it, but I’d rather it came from him.”

            “But you two are okay, yes? Happy living together?”

            Only a few days had passed since Lance had moved in, and those days had been a whirlwind of other shit. Time would tell on the whole cohabitation business. Truthfully, Lance didn’t know what to think yet. He probably wouldn’t until things settled. In spite of that, though, he _was_ happy. Happy to big spoon. Happy to share a bathroom. Happy to help with meals and dishes. Happy just to be physically present.

            Keith was going through it. And Lance was determined to stand by him.

            “We’re happy, Mami,” he said. “We haven’t even tried to kill each other yet.”

            Scowling, Teresa smacked his upper arm, but Lance moved away with a laugh. He trotted over to the picnic table and scooped a few chips into the salsa, then his mouth, before heading up the porch steps to where Keith and Silvio were seated. Keith had been teaching the kid guitar since February and he was already pretty good. Lance applauded as Silvio finished the song.

            “That was great,” Keith said.

            “I messed up the rhythm, though, I think,” Silvio replied.

            Keith shook his head. “You played the tricky parts a little slower, but your fingering was accurate, and that’s more important. You’ll pick up speed with practice.”

            “My fingering’s pretty accurate, too,” Lance remarked.

            Mouth falling open, Keith kicked out his leg and aimed straight for Lance’s crotch. Lance barely jumped back in time.

            “Hey! Watch it, purple belt.”

            “Don’t say things like that in front of your nephew!” Keith cried.

            Silvio swiveled his head between the two of them. “Huh?”

            “You know, Silvio, when a man loves—”

            Keith kicked again, his foot connecting with Lance’s shin. He didn’t hold back even a little bit. The blow hurt like a bitch, and Lance almost fell down. Luckily, the kick corresponded with Ramón calling everybody to grab plates to get what they wanted off the grill, so Lance had an escape route. He rushed away, but Keith caught up with him at the bottom of the porch steps. Lance ducked his chokehold and slapped his ass as they got in line.

            “You two are disgusting,” Veronica remarked.

            “I’m sorry, have you seen how cute his butt iiiiis— _ow, ow, mercy, mercy…_ ”

            Keith had grabbed Lance’s arm and twisted it behind his back.

            “ _Finish him,_ ” Marco called.

            “Please don’t,” Lance begged, but Keith was merciless. He pushed his foot into the back of Lance’s knee and buckled him to the ground until Lance lay face down in the grass. He even took his plate.

            “ _Fatality,_ ” Marco added.

            Keith got down low to whisper in Lance’s ear. “No clever remark about ‘finishing’?” he teased.

            “No,” Lance said to the grass.

            Chuckling in self-satisfaction, Keith set Lance’s plate on his back between his shoulders and stood up. Lance had to flop his hand around at an awkward angle to grab it before he could get off the grass. By then, the line had moved around him and Luis made him go to the back just to be a jerk.

            Dinner was lively. Everyone wanted to know how Lance felt about being graduated now that he’d had a few days. Rachel chatted Keith’s ear off about reorganization and new furniture. Veronica asked if they were sick of each other yet. Plans for the family vacation that summer got tossed around, and Ramón insisted Keith come with them if he could get the time away from his students. The expression of gratitude on Keith’s face made Lance’s heart twist.

            Later, when he was helping his dad clean the grill and Keith had joined a team game of ladder toss with Lisa, Nadia, and Teresa, Lance gave Ramón a nudge.

            “Thank you, Papi. For inviting him.”

            “ _Ay_ , it’s nothing,” Ramón replied. “I want him to come.”

            Lance looked over the lawn just as Keith scored a three-point toss, the golf balls on either end of the bola wrapping all the way around the bottom ladder rung. He cheered, and Lisa ran across the grass to high five him.

            “Best teammate ever!” she said.

            “Team In-Laws,” Ramón joked, elbowing Lance.

            Turning red, Lance stammered like an idiot. He was sure his dad didn’t mean anything by the comment. His family had always joked about stuff like that, regardless of who Lance was dating, but right then, he couldn’t think of a single retort. He couldn’t even think of a reply, so he focused his attention on the grill and scrubbed harder.

            Back in high school, when Lance had first come out to his family, his dad had actually been the most receptive. Lance had lucked out, really. Nobody had reacted _negatively_ , per se, and his dad had been supportive right out the gate. Where would Lance be right now if things had been different? If his dad had disowned him? Would he want someone like that back in his life even if that someone was his father?

            He honestly didn’t know.

            Maybe there wasn’t a simple answer.

            “I hope you know how much we like Keith, _cariño_ ,” Ramón said, smiling at Lance. “He’s, ah… _maravilloso_. We’d have to be some kind of crazy not to love him.”

            They both looked across the lawn that time. Keith was standing with Teresa, her arm slung over his shoulders while they watched Lisa and Nadia throw the bolas at their ladder. Keith had his arm around Teresa’s waist. The two of them spoke together too quietly for Lance to hear.

            “I’m really glad you like him, Papi,” Lance said.

            “To do otherwise would be impossible,” Ramón laughed. “You see him?”

            Separating, Keith and Teresa collected the bolas, then ribbed each other while Keith got ready to throw. Another solid three-point toss. Ramón grinned.

            “One-of-a-kind.”

 

At home, Lance managed to talk Keith out of cleaning and into lounging on their new sectional.   Side-by-side, he and Keith lay with their legs a little tangled, their hands in each other’s hair. The TV was playing the local evening news, but neither of them bothered to change it.

            Keith had such sexy lips. Nipping playful kisses in perfect time, resting to let Lance tease his tongue between them. Though that fizzy, neon effect had grown familiar, it had never faded. Keith still lit Lance up. His skin still tingled wherever Keith’s fingers found fit to roam. His mind still went hazy when Keith hummed. He still couldn’t believe the magic in that music.

            _Music._

            A jolt passed through Lance from head to toe. All that music. Keith’s music. Hidden in those storage containers underneath the bed.

            Should he say something?

            Keith tugged Lance’s bottom lip with his teeth and brought him back into it. Then it was hands up his back and a mouth against his neck and earlobe, breath across his jaw. He wrapped his own hands around Keith’s hips and squeezed. Keith laughed.

            “I love it when you do that,” he said.

            “What? This?” Lance asked, squeezing again.

            Nodding, Keith pressed a few more kisses to Lance’s mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “It makes me feel…I don’t know…wanted.”

            Lance tightened his grip again, and Keith smiled, bright and warm. He pecked a couple more noisy kisses, lingering after he started to move away and Lance followed, then finishing with another two pecks before letting his breath out and settling his head underneath Lance’s chin. Lance combed his fingers through his hair.

            “How come you didn’t tell your family about the jazz club?” Keith asked.

            “I’ll wait until it’s a for sure thing,” Lance replied. “I set a reminder to call Blaytz tomorrow.”

            “ _Hm_ ,” Keith hummed, turning his face to kiss the underside of Lance’s chin. “Confidence is a good look on you.”

            “Why thank you,” Lance said. “It’s from the Keith Kogane fall collection.”

            Wiggling a little, Keith lifted himself onto his elbows and looked down at Lance. His gaze trailed across Lance’s face, then his fingers. He traced the line of Lance’s nose and the Cupid’s bow of his lips. Lance kissed the callouses on his fingertips. Keith smiled.

            But the feel of those callouses reminded Lance of the music again.

            “My turn for a question?” he asked.

            “Fire away,” Keith replied, brushing Lance’s hair off his forehead.

            “When I was moving all the furniture in our room, and I found those clothes underneath the bed, I found some storage containers, too. Did you know about them?”

            Keith’s brows drew together in confusion. “Storage containers?”

            “Yeah, with…” He just knew he was kicking the hornet’s nest. “…with all your stuff from New Altea?”

            The next second, Keith vanished from the couch. He practically dimension warped down the hall. Lance had to scramble off the couch _and_ jog to catch him up, and even then Keith had already knelt on the floor and removed one of the containers by the time Lance reached their room. Keith lifted the lid on all his handouts and syllabi and textbooks and notes.

            He didn’t say anything.

            He swallowed.

            Then he looked up at Lance.

            “Will…will you help me sort these?” he asked.

            Lance sat on the floor opposite him without hesitation. “Of course.”

            Quiet, swift, as efficient and detached as ever, Keith sifted through the stacks of paper. He set all the sheet music and textbooks aside. Put handouts in one pile and assignments in another. Glanced through pages of notes. Lance did his best to assist, but mostly he found himself keeping a careful eye on Keith’s face. He didn’t like how blank his expression had become.

            “I forgot I had all this,” Keith said.

            “What do you want to do with it?”

            “Some of it will be good for my students,” he replied, his gaze falling on the sheet music and textbooks. “The rest… I don’t know. I guess I should get rid of it.”

            “Do you _want_ to get rid of it?”

            Brows drawn, Keith looked at Lance. “What do you mean?” He sounded accusatory.

            “Nothing, just…you might go back to New Altea and finish one of your degrees. Or both of them, I don’t know. Maybe you’ll still need this stuff.”

            Keith snorted. “You think because I sat through two graduation ceremonies this week I’m gonna get all mopey and jealous and want to go back to school? To do what, Lance? To accomplish _what?_ ”

            “I don’t know! Maybe just to put it all behind you.”

            “It _is_ behind me. I’m done.”

            “No offense, Keith, but I don’t think you are.”

            A jolt, and Keith went rigid. He stared at Lance, his expression totally indecipherable because it was barely an expression at all. He just looked…empty.

            “People who are done with things don’t keep shit under their beds,” Lance added.

            “What are you trying to say?”

            “I’m not trying to say anything,” Lance replied. “I’m just worried about you. You’ve been, I don’t know…weird…lately, and I feel like I can’t help you, but I want to, Keith. I wanna support you, and right now I feel like that includes telling you that from my perspective, it looks like you haven’t _really_ moved on.”

            Keith’s breath hitched. Lance hated being the cause of that, but he knew firsthand that _nothing_ got better by not talking about it.

            “Keith, I _love_ you. I’m on your team. One hundred percent. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to help.”

            “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t need help.”

            In response, Lance reached under the bed and pulled the second storage container out. Every ounce of color drained from Keith’s face. Though the move was vindictive, Lance plopped the container inside the empty one and went to remove the lid.

            “Don’t,” Keith said.

            “It’s _good,_ Keith.”

            “You looked at my _music?_ ”

            “Of course I did! Have _you_ looked at your music? Do you have any idea how incredible this stuff is? Do you have _any_ idea how goddamn talented you are?”

            “I—”

            “ _Do you?_ ”

            Keith opened his mouth, but Lance interrupted again.

            “If you so much as utter _one_ negative syllable, I’ll spin kick _you_ into the sun.”

            Keith couldn’t help but laugh at that. The sound burst out of him, though he tried to contain it. His eyes were a little watery, and he got up on his knees to pull Lance into a bizarre, A-frame hug, the storage containers on the floor between them. It took Lance a beat, but he clung tight to Keith.

            “Thank you,” Keith whispered.

            “I mean it, Keith.”

            Pulling back, Keith chuckled and wiped his nose. “What? That you’ll spin kick me into the sun?”

            “That your music is _good._ ”

            A tight breath escaped Keith’s lips. He sat back onto his heels. His eyes turned to the storage container full of compositions. For a while he just stared at it, deep in thought. Lance watched, bated and wary. Waiting. Waiting for some hint, some clue, something that would let him know what to do. How to help.

            It didn’t come.

            After all that thought, Keith simply slid the composition container back under the bed.

            “I’m not ready to look at them yet,” he said.

            Lance nodded. “Okay.”

            Folding his hands in his lap, Keith went quiet.

            “I’m sorry,” Lance said. “I shouldn’t have poked around.”

            “No, you shouldn’t have,” Keith replied. “But…thank you for apologizing.”

            He offered a sad smile, and Lance found himself returning it, reaching a hand across the space between them to stroke Keith’s cheek. Keith softened. Sighing, he glanced at the piles of notes and handouts and assignments and things.

            “I want to keep the music and the textbooks,” he said. “Everything else should go.”

            Keith grabbed a stack and smacked it on top of another one, then picked up both and got to his feet, pausing in the door frame.

            “Even if I did go back,” he said, “this stuff is already outdated.”

            Then he disappeared.

 

**

 

Monday morning, Lance left the house before Keith or Krolia and caught the bus to Bounty Hunter for the first day of his first forty-hour work week. He’d only been at the record store during the day on weekends before, so he didn’t know what to expect. Even so, the vibe still caught him off-guard.

            The place was quiet. Customers wandered through at intervals in a steady stream, but one by one. Most of them were regulars, apparently, and spent the bulk of their time in the store chatting with Rolo. Lots introduced themselves to Lance, wanted to know what his deal was—what sort of music he listened to, did he play any instruments, have any album recommendations, see any good bands lately. The folks were weirdos, sure, but music weirdos. Lance was one of those himself.

            He talked about Upright & Respectable with interested parties, recommended Blade Base and Luxite and all the other groups who played at the club, helped a guy find the Elton John LP he’d been looking for “for his whole life.” Lance laughed and waved as the guy thanked him all the way to the door.

            “You’re a natural,” Rolo said after the shop bells jingled.

            “What do you mean?”

            “You. You’re a natural.” Smiling that lazy smile of his, Rolo sidled over to the register where Lance was standing and tapped the display case glass. “You’re good with people. Did you know that?”

            Strange to admit, but Lance did not know that. He wouldn’t have dared call himself socially astute. He wasn’t—and never had been—popular. He played classical trombone and led a jazz band for hell’s sake, he wasn’t exactly “good with people” material. After considering Rolo’s comment for a second, he just laughed.

            “No I’m not,” he said.

            Rolo grinned. “Sure you are.” He motioned with his head for Lance to leave the register. “Think about it on your lunch or something.”

            Lance went back to the break room to grab his wallet from the lockers, then slipped out the front door with a parting wave to Rolo. On the street, the sun was high, shining real light all the way down to the usually shady sidewalks. Lance fell into step with the other pedestrians, not quite sure where he was headed yet. His phone buzzed in his back pocket.

            The reminder he’d set to call Blaytz had gone off.

            Lance’s stomach flipped and fell into his feet.

            Ducking out of the flow of traffic, he took himself over to the shop window of some antique store and leaned against the outside wall. He opened the text Coran had sent. Stared at the collection of numbers contained within it.

            He _had_ to call. Of course he had to call. He _had to._ He couldn’t waste an opportunity like this—a potential dream job just falling into his lap. He had to call. If not for himself, then for Matt and Pidge and the band. He had to call, right?

            So why hadn’t he dialed yet?

            Swallowing, Lance slid down the wall until his butt met the concrete. If this didn’t work out, what then? If it did, but wound up a dead end, what then?

            In college, at least he’d known what he was doing. He’d had a list of requirements, boxes to tick, clear steps to take to reach a goal. None of that existed in the real world. He was totally on his own to figure out how things worked. What if he ended up going full time at Bounty Hunter for the rest of his life? What if Upright & Respectable never moved beyond Blade Base? Could he be content with that?

            If he tried, and he failed, that was it. The dream would disappear. If he never tried…he could dream about it for the rest of his life. Tell his kids, “I would have been famous,” instead of, “I never made it.” Which was worse?

            He found himself calling Keith.

            “How’s your first day, full-timer?” Keith asked upon answering.

            “I need you to talk me into calling Blaytz,” Lance replied.

            “What?”

            Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m doing that thing I do where I overthink,” he said, “and I’m overthinking calling this guy about the jazz club. Talk me into it.”

            “No.”

            That was not a word Lance had expected to hear. Startled, he didn’t reply.

            “I’m not gonna talk you into anything, Lance. If you don’t want to call him, don’t call him. If you want to call, call.”

            “Jesus…”

            “What?”

            “Nothing, just—it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

            “No, it isn’t.”

            Again, Lance found himself startled into silence. On Keith’s end, a few strange sounds filtered into the receiver: water sloshing in a bucket, hinges squeaking, an echoed clunk.

            “Where are you?” Lance asked.

            “Ryner’s other property,” Keith replied. “She hired a painter, so I’m washing the walls.”

            “Oh…”

            Water sloshing, dribbling. Then Keith said, “Do you _want_ to call Blaytz?”

            “Of course.”

            “Then hang up right now and call him.”

            Taking a deep breath, Lance grabbed that momentum and ran with it. He didn’t even say goodbye, he just clicked to end the call, opened the text from Coran, and tapped Blaytz’s phone number. He scarcely had time to think before the line was ringing, and scarcely had time to panic before someone was picking up.

            “You’ve got Blaytz.”

            But he panicked then, oh boy.

            Lance opened his mouth, but absolutely nothing came out. His mind revved about a million miles a minute and still managed not to go anywhere. It was like time stopped to let an eternity pass. By the time he gained traction on his faculties again, he had no idea how long he’d been silent.

            “Hey, this is Lance McClain,” somebody said in his voice. “One of Coran’s students from New Altea. He gave me your number, told me you were looking for jazz musicians.”

            “Oh, _hey._ Yeah, wild. Gimme one sec, man, okay?”

            “Sure.”

            Whatever Blaytz needed to do on his end, Lance thanked the gods for it. The muffled shuffling bought him enough time to fully return to his senses.

            “Sorry about that,” Blaytz said. “Nowhere to put your ass around here, you know?”

            He laughed, so Lance joined in.

            “No problem,” Lance said.

            “Okay. Lance. You’ve got the ensemble, yeah? Upright and something?”

            “And Respectable, yeah.”

            “Excellent. And what do you play?”

            “Piano,” Lance replied. “Trombone as well, but not in the ensemble. My degree is in trombone.”

            “Music school is something else, huh?” Blaytz laughed, so Lance joined in again. “That’s great. Hey, I’d love to meet with you in person, man, if that’s something you’d be up for? I’m no good on the phone. Old school like that.”

            Lance chuckled. “You’re doing great.”

            “Oh, thanks. I’m blushing.”

            “Yeah, I’m totally up for meeting,” Lance said, uncertain when he’d relaxed. “My work schedule is a little all over the place, but I’m downtown, and could take a lunch whenever.”

            “What’s your Wednesday look like?”

            “Upright and Respectable plays at Blade Base on Wednesdays, so the evening is out, but I’m on shipment that morning, so I’m off at three.”

            “Cool, how’s three thirty? I’ll show you the progress on the club and we can chat.”

            “That’s great. What’s the address?”

            Blaytz passed it along, and Lance repeated it over and over in his head as they said goodbye and hung up. Then he typed the address into a note and stared at it, his heart just going and going and going.

            When he called Keith back, all he could manage was an incomprehensible screech.

 

Lance spent the rest of his shift vibrating with excitement. His mind kept going in circles. He was gonna meet Blaytz on Wednesday and things were gonna go great and he was gonna secure a position for his band at a brand new jazz club and he was gonna see the club on Wednesday when he met Blaytz and things were gonna go great and—

            Rizavi was sitting on the front steps talking to Ryner when Lance got home.

            “ _Shit._ ” He’d promised to help her with her class schedule for New Altea. “I totally forgot, Rizzo. I’m so sorry.”

            Offering a smile, Rizavi shook her head as he approached. “I’ve only been here like ten minutes. Ryner was telling me about touring Europe.” She got up and slung her backpack over one shoulder. “I’m super jealous.”

            Ryner chuckled. “The seventies were a different time.”

            “I’m still jealous.”

            “Thanks for covering for me, Ryner,” Lance said as Rizavi trotted down the porch steps.

            “My pleasure,” Ryner replied with a smile. “How are things downstairs?”

            Lance gave her two thumbs up and an enormous grin that made her laugh. They waved at each other, and Ryner went inside while Lance headed around back with Rizavi.

            “Thanks for doing this,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

            “Of course, Rizzo.” He opened the door and gestured for her to enter. “Happy to—”

            A bunch of new furniture had materialized in the kitchen. Lance stopped dead. Dining chairs, a couple of end tables, two floor lamps, a coffee table, a TV stand, and some kind of hutch. Rizavi didn’t really take notice of any of it, going to the dining table and sitting down. Lance squeezed past the hutch to follow.

            “What’s it like living with Keith?” Rizavi asked as she pulled her laptop out.

            “Oh, you know…” Lance glanced over the furniture again. “…it’s good.”

            “I’m kind of nervous to move out in the fall,” she replied, “but my parents really wanted me to have the ‘full college experience’ or whatever.”

            “You should definitely try it,” Lance said. “For a year, at least. No risk, no reward.”

            He took a seat next to her and smiled. Drawing in a deep breath, Rizavi smiled back. Then they got down to work.

            Naturally, Rizavi had generated a massive list of information on classes and requirements and electives and the different performance ensembles. Over the next few hours, Lance helped her sort through it all, answered her questions, shared a few of his experiences as a freshman. He gave his opinion on professors, even helped her knock out a class schedule and showed her how to put them all in her cart so she’d be able to register with one click once the date rolled around. Afterward, Rizavi let out a deep breath.

            “What’s on your mind, Rizzo?” Lance asked.

            She chewed her lip for a second. “Can I ask you a question you definitely don’t know the answer to?”

            Lance laughed. “Sure.”

            “Should I even do this?”

            Surprised, Lance sat up. He tilted his head and eyed Rizavi, trying to get a read on where she was coming from. She held his eye, but shifted in her seat. Lance considered a moment before speaking.

            “I _don’t_ know, Riz,” he said. “College is a big decision. It’s a lot of time, and a lot of money, and choosing to go for a degree in music is…” He laughed. “…kind of a stupid one from a financial standpoint, but—and I mean this—I don’t regret it. At least not yet. We have no way of knowing where our decisions are gonna take us. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut.”

            Lance was where he was because of New Altea. Where he was was not where he had expected to be, not by a long shot, but he wouldn’t trade it. Not any of it. Not even to smooth over the bad parts.

            Rizavi’s eyes had turned to her lap in the middle of his speech, but she’d listened, and she processed, then nodded.

            “I’ll think on that,” she said.

            “Sounds good.”

            The rumble of Keith’s motorcycle engine reached Lance’s ears from the driveway. A couple seconds after it shut off, Keith himself appeared in the doorway.

            “Oh, hey, Rizzo,” he said, removing his bag and setting it down. “What’s up?”

            “Lance was just helping me with my registration and stuff for New Altea.”

            Nodding, Keith continued to shed his various motorcycle and teacher accessories as he moved through the kitchen. “Cool. I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t stop on my account.” His hand fell briefly atop Lance’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze before he disappeared down the hall.

            Both of them watched him go. When Lance turned back toward Rizavi, she mouthed the words, “ _Is he okay?_ ” and raised her eyebrows.

            Lance could only shrug and shake his head.

            He made Rizavi stay for a little bit so that Keith wouldn’t think she’d left because he’d come home. They chatted about Blaytz and Lance’s upcoming meeting, all the possibilities surrounding the invitation, then said goodbye. Rizavi thanked Lance again on her way out, and he assured her he was happy to help.

            He shut the door behind Rizavi, then went back to the bathroom and knocked.

            “Yeah?” Keith called over the noise from the shower.

            “How was your day?” Lance replied, testing the handle. It was unlocked, so he opened the door, and a cloud of steam hit him in the face.

            “I don’t know,” Keith replied. His voice was clear, but echoed, now as Lance slipped into the room. “Ryner’s other property is almost finished, and I brought some more furniture down, but I might have lost one of my students today.”

            Lance startled. “What? Why?”

            Behind the shower curtain, Keith’s silhouette jumped. “ _Christ_. Did you _come in?_ Is Rizavi gone?”

            “Yeah. What happened with your student?”

            Keith pulled the shower curtain just enough to poke his head out. “I’m taking a _shower_.” He whipped the curtain closed. Lance leaned against the counter and started taking off his socks.

            “What happened though?”

            “Well, for starters, the kid doesn’t practice at all, so the only time he’s improving is when I’m physically present, which is bullshit, and apparently he’s been lying to his mom _about_ practicing. Federation was this weekend and he scored for shit, obviously, so his mom comes for my throat today, and I tell her it’s because he never practices, and that started a whole thing, and I wouldn’t back down when I probably should have, but it’s _not_ my fault that he isn’t a better violinist, and I wasn’t in the mood to play nice.”

            “Jesus,” Lance replied. By then, he was down to his underwear, and he took that off, too.

            “Yeah, I don’t know. She said they were going to ‘reevaluate his learning program’ or some shit, so we’ll see if they decide to find another—”

            Keith cut himself off as Lance climbed into the shower.

            “What are you _doing?_ ”

            “What does it look like I’m doing?”

            “Lance, I have _shampoo_ in my hair.”

            He did. The locks were all frothy, fingers tangled in them, and his eyes were squeezed shut. Lance nudged him backward into the stream, and Keith jolted. His soapy hair flopped over his eyes, and he spluttered as water ran into his mouth.

            “This is not romantic!” he cried, laughing.

            “Yes it is. Let me love you.”

            “No. Go away.”

            Keith tried to push Lance back, but he couldn’t see, and they were both slippery, so he didn’t accomplish anything. Lance hooked an arm around Keith’s waist and drew him close, trying to be careful so he wouldn’t slip. Then he smoothed Keith’s hair above his forehead. Keith blinked his eyes open, wary of soap.

            “Mind if I join you?” Lance smiled.

            “ _Now_ you ask.”

            “I’ll get out if you want…”

            Tilting his head, Keith gave Lance an appreciative once-over that made Lance’s gut curl. A small, sharp smile took the curve of Keith’s lips.

            “You can stay,” he said. “But I am gonna finish my hair and stuff.”

            “By all means,” Lance replied, loosening his grip so Keith could turn around.

            Keith combed conditioner through his hair. Clinging to him lightly, Lance traced the outline of his slick hips. Keith soaped up a loofa. Lance definitely got in the way while he tried to wash. By the time he’d rinsed everything, Lance could no longer restrain himself from trailing the line of Keith’s pelvic muscles to his cock. Keith melted against him as Lance brushed his fingers down his length. He pressed his bottom against Lance’s hips, and Lance melted a little himself.

            “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough time, babe,” he said, kissing Keith’s neck.

            “When it rains, it pours,” Keith replied.

            “Like Morton salt.”

            “What?”

            “You know, the salt with that girl carrying an umbr—never mind.”

           He sucked his mouth against Keith’s throat as Keith laughed. Keith’s fingers found their way to Lance’s hair, and he hummed as Lance nipped a line of playful bites down his neck and across his shoulder. Lance stroked him, and that hum turned into a moan.

            They both went quiet, then—Lance to run his hands up and down Keith’s cock, Keith to press his ass against Lance’s own erection. They moved in tandem, slow and deliberate. That was one of the things Lance loved most about having sex with Keith. He wasn’t in a hurry to finish. He preferred the gradual, pressurized build. The careful change of motion. The entrancing ascent to orgasm that made climax feel like liquefying into gold.

            And it did. Lance went first, his whole body warm and loose. Keith slackened right after him, sighing as he came. They stood still for a moment to catch their breath.

            “How was _your_ day?” Keith asked eventually.

            Chuckling, Lance nuzzled a kiss to the hollow of his ear. “Better every second.”

            “You flatter me.”

            “Not enough.”

            Keith turned around to bring them face to face. He looked sad somehow, like sorrow had settled so deep in every one his muscles that it almost wasn’t visible anymore. Lance’s heart ached. Though Keith was confident and strong, he carried a lot of weight. Too much, probably. That could easily wear a person out. He wrapped his arms around Keith’s waist.

            “I wish I could do something to help you, beautiful,” he said.

            Letting his breath out, Keith hugged himself close. The water ran over them both, gradually losing heat.

            “You could give me some advice, maybe,” Keith said.

            “Okay.”

            “I think you were right when you said I hadn’t really moved on,” Keith began, resting his head on Lance’s shoulder. “After everything that happened, I just…buried it all. I guess I probably thought if I ignored it, it would go away, but shutting a door doesn’t make a room disappear.”

            “No…”

            “Now all this shit is out in the open again, so I’m gonna have to deal with it one way or another, and I, like…I don’t _want_ to deal with it. I’m not _ready_ to deal with it, but I can’t just push it back into its hole and cover it with dirt again either.”

            Careful, quiet, Lance slid his fingers up and down Keith’s spine.

            “I’m furious with Shiro for digging all this up, and I don’t want to justify his behavior by talking to my parents because he had no right to do what he did and I don’t want him to think that he made a good decision or ‘helped me.’ Does that make sense?”

            “Totally.” Lance gave his hips a squeeze. “Do you feel like you have to talk to your parents, though? Does that have to be part of the resolution?”

            “I don’t know.”

            The water had run cold by then, and Keith shivered, so Lance reached around him to shut it off. They stood in the tub and dripped for a moment in silence until Lance nudged Keith toward the curtain. Stepping out, Keith grabbed Lance’s towel and passed it to him, then located his own. His brows furrowed in deep thought while he dried off. Eventually, his arms fell still.

            “They’re my parents,” he whispered. “They raised me. Yeah, they made a lot of mistakes, and no, I don’t think they’ve changed, but if they _have_ …if I could have a relationship with them again… I don’t know. Of course I want that. But I’m scared if I open myself up and they _haven’t_ changed…”

            “It’s just gonna hurt all over again.”

            “Yeah…”

            Sighing, Lance got out of the tub and dumped his towel to hold Keith tight. “I don’t know what to tell you, babe. It’s a shitty situation.”

            “I know. I keep going around in circles.”

            “I’ll tell you this, though.” Lance leaned back and smiled. “You’re a lot stronger than you think you are.”

            An incredulous expression crossed Keith’s eyes as he tilted his head. Lance took his face in his hands to hold him steady for a kiss. That sad tension lingered in his lips, even. Lance kissed him until it lifted.

            “Here’s what I think,” he said, pulling back and brushing his thumbs across Keith’s cheeks. “Take a couple days to settle and see how you feel. If by then you decide you’re not ready to deal with the garbage, we’ll throw a blanket over it and ignore it until you are. If you decide you’re ready to clean it up, we’ll start small.”

            “This is just the tip of the iceberg, though, Lance. If I start cleaning…”

            “Well, you’ve got to make a mess first, right?”

            Keith hung his head and huffed a laugh. When he lifted his face, he had on a somber smile. Lance smiled back, his eyebrows drawing together.

            “Will you help me?” Keith asked.

            Lance pressed a firm kiss to his mouth. “Sure thing.”

 

**

 

Tuesday came and went with an easy eight hours at Bounty Hunter and an evening of furniture arrangement with Krolia. Lance went to bed early in preparation for his five AM shipment shift the following morning, but woke around midnight when Keith climbed into bed with him.

            He was hazy, only half-awake, but coherent enough to return a couple goodnight kisses and secure his arms around Keith’s shoulders once he finally put his head down.

            Lance didn’t comprehend that Keith had said anything until his alarm went off at four.

            “Good luck tomorrow.”

            A semi-truck of nervous energy slammed into Lance in an instant.

            Holy _shit_. He was meeting Blaytz today.

            He got up and got ready in a panic, shoved a protein bar into his mouth and a change of clothes into his backpack. The sky was dark still when he headed for his bus stop, and he hadn’t really slept all that well. Jesus, this must have been what Hell was like. Dealing with box after box of new releases for pricing and ticketing didn’t help, nor reworking the window display, or sorting the trades in backstock. By the time Bounty Hunter opened at ten, Lance was a husk of a human being, and by the time he left, wearing his “cool jazz musician” outfit, headed for the address Blaytz had given him, he was little more than a wisp of pure anxiety.

            He didn’t realize he’d been clenching his teeth for hours until he opened his mouth to apologize to a guy he’d flat tired while walking behind him in a nervous daze. Lance worked his jaw the rest of the way, trying to ease some of the ache.

            The address Blaytz had given corresponded to a building on the corner of first and main. It was one of Altea’s older high-rises, built as a warehouse or a factory way back when and repurposed into housing, then business offices as the city had grown and expanded. Given its age, the building hadn’t been much of anything except a unique pile of bricks for years. Lance noticed as he approached that the entire top floor was covered by construction plastic.

            His eyes tracked the building down to street level where they landed on a man leaning against the wall next to a doorway.

            Blaytz.

            Had to be.

            He was ridiculously tall and ridiculously cut—broad shoulders, thick arms, narrow waist. A chinstrap beard that came to points over his chin and cheeks accented his rectangular face and mouth, which seemed fixed in a permanent smirk. His hair was just as pointy as his beard, black and swept back away from his face. As he turned and looked toward Lance, the sun caught the tips and made them shine blue. That smirk split into a smile.

            “Lance McClain?” he asked, lifting off the wall and offering his hand as Lance finished his approach.

            Lance shook. “That’s me.”

            “Yeah, you’ve got that musician swagger. I’m Blaytz. Great to meet you.”

            “You, too,” Lance replied, trying not to blush or let his mouth hang open.

            “Come on up. I’ll show you around.”

            Gesturing with his head, Blaytz pushed open the door and led Lance into the lobby. It was kind of a mess with sawdust and construction equipment, but the path to the elevator was clear. Blaytz called the elevator, and the doors dinged open. He motioned for Lance to go first.

            “Place is still in the early stages, so don’t judge too harshly, okay?” Blaytz said with a chuckle. He joined Lance in the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

            “Consider my judgement suspended.”

            “Yeah, I’m thinking all this is gonna be apartments or studios or something, but I was itching to finish the club first, you know?”

            “Wait, do you own the _building?_ ”

            Blaytz laughed. “Sure do. Told myself I’d only come back to Altea once I could afford to buy this beauty. Give it the life it deserves, you know? Packed up and peaced out the same day my realtor contacted me.”

            There was nothing Lance could do at that point to keep his mouth from gaping open. The elevator followed suit shortly thereafter, its doors parting to show an expansive room alive with the buzz of drills and pounding of hammers and loads of guys in construction gear shouting to each other. Blaytz grabbed a hard hat off a rolling rack by the elevator and passed it to Lance.

            “Safety first,” he said with a wink.

            No sooner had Lance put on the hat than Blaytz had whirled him into the fray. They’d busted out all the walls on the top floor to create one enormous space, stripped the floor down to the boards. Blaytz showed him where the central bar would go, explained the imagined layout for tables and furniture, asked him to envision a raised stage at one end. The guy wanted to do everything up in shades of blue, and the concept palette and illustration on the plans Blaytz showed Lance looked absolutely incredible. Like living in a black and white movie, only blue.

            “Of course, all this is subject to change,” Blaytz laughed. “The one thing that’s _not_ …”

            He guided Lance over to the building’s outside wall and pulled back the plastic. The view from the top floor made Lance’s breath catch. City streets that bled into suburbs that butted up against the rising mountains, still capped with a little snow. The sky seemed so huge… This place would be spectacular at sunset. And at night.

            “Had to pull a few strings with the city to get them to let me knock out all this out,” Blaytz said, tapping a hand against a support beam. “Gonna be wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows up here.”

            “It’s _amazing._ ”

            “Glad you think so.” Letting the plastic drop, Blaytz smiled at Lance and gestured with his head. “Let’s chat.”

            He led the way back to the elevator, and they went down a level to a hallway, and down that hallway to a door. On the other side was an office that seemed purely functional, but was still pretty sleek. Blaytz plopped down in an arm chair in the corner and motioned for Lance to sit in the one kitty corner from it. He did.

            “So, that’s the club. I know it’s kinda tough to visualize with the whole lotta nothing in there, but…”

            “No, no,” Lance said, sitting up. “I think it’s gonna be fantastic.”

            Blaytz grinned. “Good. Now, tell me about yourself. You just graduated?”

            “Yeah, like a week ago,” Lance laughed. “I studied trombone. I’ve been playing that since I was a kid. Classical.”

            “Radical. Love it. You mentioned that on the phone. Piano, too, yeah?”

            Flattered, Lance nodded. “Just under four years on piano. That’s what I play for Upright and Respectable.”

            “What’s the story there?”

            “Well, I’d wanted to start a jazz band since forever,” Lance replied. “Then things kind of fell into place last November. I’d just met my boyfriend, and one of the guys who played in my old trombone quartet quit, so I took it as a sign and the other members and I decided to pursue this route, recruited other musicians. We’ve got two trombones, two trumpets, two saxophones, drums, bass, and piano.”

            “Pretty big ensemble. Your boyfriend plays with you?”

            “No, but he’s a musician. He’s really kind of unbelievable? Lit a fire under my ass that got my gears going on the actually starting the band.”

            “Excellent. What’s your style?”

            “We’re all young, so we’re willing to try anything.” Lance laughed. “We’ve finally worked out a solid improv method, and one of our guys writes stuff in the vein of Afro-Cuban and Latin, a little Bossa Nova. Mostly we’ve been playing covers, though.”

            “You mentioned you guys had a gig tonight?”

            “Yeah, at Blade Base. We play there every Wednesday.”

            “Must be good.”

            “I’d like to think so.”

            Blaytz’s smile split to show his teeth again. He sat up and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

            “What are your plans for your band?” he asked.

            “I want to see it become a full-time gig,” Lance replied. “I figure I’ve got the time now to really go after it, and I can reevaluate down the line depending on how things shake out. It’s kind of tough to predict, especially given how different everybody’s schedules and life trajectories are, but, no matter what, I’ll keep playing. I love it too much to stop.”

            Thoughtful, Blaytz nodded. “What’s plan B?”

            “Teach private lessons, audition for symphonies, stay full-time at the record store where I work, get an office job and play on the weekends.” Lance shrugged. “I don’t have any illusions about how hard it is to quote unquote ‘make it big.’ Especially in jazz.”

            “What are your thoughts on going solo?”

            “Not under the name Upright and Respectable, but I’m open to it. Doing more on the side as a solo artist, I mean.”

            Blaytz nodded again, considering for a moment.

            “Cool,” he said as he sat back. “I mean, I’ll be honest with you, man. I think you and I are gonna get along great. Same wavelength, you know?”

            Pulse spiking, Lance nodded. “Definitely.”

            “Are you feeling like you wanna play here?”

            “Are you kidding me? _Of course._ ”

            Blaytz laughed loud and bright. “Great. Why don’t you talk to your guys and find a time you could get together to audition for me? Obviously I wanna know if you can actually play.” He chuckled. “Let me know what time you all decide, and I’ll be there.”

            Lance wasn’t entirely sure when he’d started nodding, but he had, and he was doing so vigorously. His heart beat like hummingbird wings in his chest, and his head felt light. The possibilities presented here were endless. Lance didn’t know Blaytz’s exact position in the industry, but he clearly had a lot of money and a vision and the confidence to make it happen. If nothing else, Lance would have an opportunity to learn from him.

            “Any questions for me?” Blaytz asked.

            “When will the club open?”

            “End of the month, if I can keep my guys on schedule,” Blaytz replied.

            “Awesome. And you’re good if I just text you about the audition?”

            “Yup. Text me whatever. More questions. Hot new restaurants that opened up in the last ten years.”

            Lance laughed. “You got it.”

            Scooting forward, Blaytz stuck his hand out for Lance to shake. Lance did so, firm and excited.

            “Great to meet you, man,” Blaytz said. “Thanks for coming down.”

            “My pleasure,” Lance replied. “Thanks for showing me around.”

            The pair of them rose, and Blaytz walked him to the elevator, where they exchanged a few more pleasantries and a little banter before Lance boarded. Blaytz raised a hand in a friendly wave as the doors rolled closed. As soon as they did, Lance buckled, hands on his knees, and let his breath out with a high-pitched squeal.

            “Oh my god…”

            Straightening, he dragged his hands down his face.

            Upright & Respectable had a gig in a brand new jazz club. He was certain of it. No way they wouldn’t meet Blaytz’s standards. They were _good_. He knew they were good.

            The elevator dinged, dropping him on the first floor. Lance floated out the front door and turned his face upward as he headed down the street. That construction plastic billowed on the breeze. The noise from the work going on inside was just audible. An uncontrollable grin overtook Lance’s mouth, and he picked up his pace, grinning all the way home.

            He made and ate dinner with decided pep, got ready for Blade Base and boarded the bus again, _beyond_ excited to share the news with everybody. He practically busted down the door to the green room the second he got there.

            “ _You guys!_ ”

            Shay screamed, Kinkade nearly dropped his saxophone, and Griffin choked on the sip he’d been taking from his water bottle. The rest of them jumped. Pidge, who was standing closest to the door and therefore Lance, actually punched him in the gut.

            “Oh my god!” she cried, grabbing his shoulders to steady him as he doubled over. “I’m so sorry. Conditioned response. Are you okay?”

            “Fine,” Lance whispered as he struggled to catch his breath. “Jesus, you’re strong.”

            “Tell me about it,” Matt said. “At least she didn’t kick you in the nads.”

            “It’s your own fault every time,” Pidge replied. Apologetic, she helped Lance to stand straight. “Why the dramatic entrance?”

            That grin returned to Lance’s face. “I met Blaytz today.”

            He had everybody’s unbridled attention in a instant. The eight of them—even Griffin—hurried over and huddled before him, already hanging on his every word.

            “And?” Rax prompted.

            “I think we’re gonna have a job.”

            Shay screamed again. The others gasped and cheered and threw their hands up, hugged each other, hugged Lance, tossed out high fives and some frat boy whooping. Pidge collapsed all the way to the floor and splayed her arms. Laughing, Lance actually had to jump away to avoid getting hit.

           “Christ,” came Keith’s voice from the door. Surprised, Lance turned to find him entering, guitar case in hand, chuckling at the sight of Upright & Respectable in panic mode. “You guys win the lottery?”

            “ _Pretty much!_ ” Kinkade hollered, smacking another high five to Rizavi’s hand.

            Keith looked to Lance for an answer. Bewildered by his presence, Lance just stared.

            “Oh!” he said, jolting to attention after Keith raised his eyebrows. “My meeting with Blaytz went really well. He wants us to audition for him, but I’m pretty sure we’ll get in.”

            Keith’s mouth opened with a smile, and he set down his guitar to come forward and wrap his arms around Lance’s neck. He squeezed hard. “That’s amazing.” He squeezed harder. “Oh my god, that’s amazing.” Turning his head to the side, he kissed Lance’s cheek. “I’m so proud of you, oh my god.”

            Lance returned the hug. By then, everybody else had settled into excited conversations about the good news, which gave him at least a little privacy with Keith. He pulled back carefully.

            “I wanted to tell you in person,” he said. “That’s the only reason I didn’t call.”

            Smiling, Keith cupped Lance’s face in his hands and touched a kiss to his mouth. “I’m excited for you, Boy Scout.”

            Lance nodded toward Keith’s guitar. “What’s that for?”

            What he really wanted to ask was, “What are you doing here?” but that seemed both insensitive and stupid. Keith spent more time in Blade Base than anyone aside from Kolivan and Ulaz. Lance shouldn’t have been surprised to see him in the green room, but Keith wasn’t _technically_ supposed to be there. Or, rather, he didn’t have a reason to be. That Lance knew of, anyway.

            “I’m filling Angel Fish’s set tonight,” Keith replied. “Misty’s having her baby.”

            “Oh, shit. That’s awesome.”

            Keith nodded. “A good news day.” He offered a smile slightly tinged with sadness. “I’m gonna go get changed, okay? Break a leg tonight.”

            Another kiss to Lance’s cheek, and Keith was gone. A moment later, Lance’s phone buzzed in his pocket with a notification for an Instagram post from Luxite’s account. A beautiful picture of a beautiful Keith on stage, an announcement for tonight’s impromptu performance in the description. Smiling, Lance liked the post. Left a couple of hearts as a comment.

            “Hey,” Kinkade said. The guy extended his hand as Lance looked up. “Thanks, man. You’re really a great band leader.”

            Grinning, Lance took his hand and shook. “Nah. _We’re_ a great band.”

            “Learn to take a compliment, would you?” Pidge said, smacking Lance’s arm.

            Lance laughed. “All right, all right.” His eyes drifted from Pidge to Kinkade, to Rizavi, to Matt, to Leifsdottir, Rax, Griffin, and Shay. “I mean it, though. We’re great.” An enormous grin unfolded on his face. “Let’s play _our_ music tonight. Improv. Kinkade’s Afro-Cuban stuff. Yeah?”

            Every single one of them smiled back.

            “Yeah,” they said.

            Upright & Respectable finished warming up. Filed to the stage door for their places call. Went on at eight. For a split second, Lance got nervous over their decision to abandon their cover set for the night. But the second passed, and his heart lit up like a Roman candle at the first note Griffin blew.

            This was how Upright & Respectable was meant to play.

            The set was absolutely wild. They were kind of all over the place, but that was kind of the point. The crowd hadn’t been expecting it at all, but they seemed excited, and that excited the performance, which excited the crowd all over again. Kinkade’s stuff was light and fun. Every one of the pieces he’d composed for the group had a distinctive, bouncy rhythm that kept things up. For their first time playing the stuff in front of an audience, Lance really couldn’t have asked for the set to go better. Everybody crushed their improvisations. Everybody blended their parts for the compositions. Everybody put on a show.

            The experience left Lance a little breathless.

            Afterward, in the green room, they all talked a million miles a minute. How great it was to finally play their own stuff. How much the audience actually seemed to enjoy it. How they’d work their asses off to improve before their audition for Blaytz. Only a knock at the green room door, followed by Kolivan poking his head inside, gave them pause.

            “ _Great_ set,” he said. His eyes located Lance. “There’s somebody asking to see you.”

            “Who?”

            Kolivan smiled. “Come see.”

            Exchanging intrigued glances with the others, Lance rose and followed Kolivan to the club floor. His heart palpitated when his eyes landed on someone seated in one of the rear booths.

            “ _Blaytz_ ,” he sputtered.

            The guy looked unreasonably cool—an arm slung over the seatback, half-empty pint in his other hand, wearing a rust-colored leather jacket with a pair of sunglasses tucked up in his hair. Lance would have to learn to get over the fangirling if he was gonna work for this guy. Blaytz grinned.

            “Hey, there, Mr. Band Leader,” he said. “Have a seat.”

            Lance did as he was told.

            “You want something to drink?” Blaytz asked, already flagging a waiter.

            “Um, a mojito?” Lance replied, glancing between the waiter and Blaytz. “You—I had no idea you were coming tonight.”

            A day of good news and an evening of surprise appearances, apparently.

            “Hey, you’re a working band. I should take the opportunity to watch you guys in your element. Gives me a chance to see how crowds respond to you, how you respond to crowds, you know. There’s an energy, yeah? Plus, I didn’t actually want you guys to polish a bunch of stuff for an audition. Like it raw.”

            Lance laughed, stunned. “We certainly played raw tonight.”

            “Hell yeah you did.”

            The waiter brought his mojito and set it down. Lance hardly glanced at it. He had his eyes glued to Blaytz. His stomach was in knots, waiting for the penny to drop.

            “It was fantastic.”

            Ridiculous relief and excitement flooded Lance’s whole body. He practically dissolved into the booth. He must have made a stupid face about it because Blaytz laughed.

            “Come on,” Blaytz said. “You know you’re good.”

            Lance could only stammer in reply. Blaytz picked up the slack.

            “Hey, we can negotiate an offer later and you can take it back to your people and let them feedback, but I wanted to see if you’d be interested in playing piano solo for Blue as well. Didn’t know if that’d be a sensitive subject for the rest of the crew.”

            Lance’s mouth dropped open, but he was quick to snap it closed. “Oh my— _yes_. I mean, yes I’d like to do it, not yes it’s a sensitive subject, oh my god… _Really?_ ”

            “Why are you surprised?” Blaytz asked, laughing.

            Blinking, Lance shook his head in an attempt to return to his senses. He had a real-ass job offer playing _jazz_ in a _jazz club._ This was real. It was really happening. He’d known that afternoon, but now he had confirmation. Now he had his future boss seated in front of him. Now he had something concrete to show for four years of schooling, and so _soon_ after graduation.

            When he opened his mouth to reply, the floor lights dimmed and the gathered crowd interrupted with applause. The signal for a performance drew Blaytz’s attention, so Lance followed his lead and turned toward the stage. Expectedly, a gorgeous Keith had appeared. The Wednesday night customers were regulars, and knew him well, hence the excited reception. The glitter in the lacquer on his Gibson caught the light as he stepped up to a mic stand.

            “Surprise.”

            Even now, Lance _still_ melted at the sound of Keith’s voice through a microphone. The crowd responded with a couple sharp whistles. Keith smiled, plucking strings.

            “Misty went into labor this morning, so I’m filling for Angel Fish tonight. Last I heard, mother and baby are both doing great. Seven pounds, two ounces. Full head of hair. They named him Tucker.”

            “Can’t play The Name Game with that one!” somebody shouted from the back.

            Keith laughed, pointing over the crowd. “No you cannot!”

            Everybody laughed then—Blaytz included. Keith glanced down, then back up, cleared his throat, adjusted the height on the mic. Waiting for them to quiet, but playing it smooth.

            “Anyway,” he said, “I’ve been on a Kate Bush kick, so now you get to suffer with me.”

            He started to play. Fingerstyling, which was unusual for electric guitar, but he made it work, creating this fleshed-out accompaniment that sounded like he was playing with several other musicians. Keith had introduced Lance to Kate Bush, so he recognized the song: “Wow”. And wow he did. Blaytz tapped Lance’s elbow from across the table to get his attention.

            “Hey, you know this guy?” he asked. “What’s his name? Who does his arrangements?”

            “That’s Keith. He’s, um—he does his own arrangements. He’s my boyfriend.”

            Blaytz’s eyes sparked as they went wide. “No kidding?”

            Lance nodded. Appreciative, Blaytz turned his attention to Keith once more and observed for a moment.

            “I see what you meant by ‘unbelievable’,” he remarked.

            Heart pinching, Lance looked toward Keith. He loved him too much. He loved the curve of his hands and the shape of his fingers as he fretted chords. He loved the way he shut his eyes to sing sometimes. He loved the subtle motion of his body keeping rhythm. He loved his voice. He loved his infectious confidence. He loved his loyalty. His fallibility. Keith was everything.

            Suddenly, Lance remembered what was important, what really mattered, and it wasn’t his new job or the potential yield that could come from knowing Blaytz. It was Keith.

            And Keith alone.

            In that same moment, Lance’s eyes caught on a familiar tuft of white hair in the crowd moving toward the front of the stage. His stomach dropped into his shoes.

            “Shiro, you moron,” he said through his teeth, bracing for impact.

            Keith noticed his brother only a few seconds later. He faltered in the middle of a lyric, though the slip was almost imperceptible. Probably nobody else noticed. But Lance did. So did Shiro. He offered Keith a sheepish smile and a small wave. Keith fixed him with an acute, intense, emotionless stare. Then he lifted his eyes.

            He didn’t look at Shiro for the rest of the performance.

            At the end, everybody applauded and cheered. Keith thanked them, a little brisk, and swept off the stage. Blaytz tapped Lance’s elbow again.

            “Hey, he was _fantastic_ ,” he said. “What—”

            “I’m sorry, Blaytz,” Lance said, standing. “I’ll be right back. I need to—um—one sec.”

            He hurried from the booth, skirted the crowd at the back, and broke into a run to reach the door to the staff hallways. Flinging it open, he dashed to the green room. Pidge and Matt and Kinkade were still there, but not Keith. Matt’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth, but Lance left before anything came out. He ran to the dressing room Keith always used, but he wasn’t there either.

            “Shit.”

           Lance bolted for the back door. He stumbled into the employee parking area at the same time Shiro appeared, coming around the side of the building. In the lot, Keith had his helmet on and had mounted his bike. He flipped up the kickstand. Lance started running.

            “Keith!”

            A little throttle, and Keith zipped across the gravel and out of sight. Lance came to a stop and let his breath out.

            Behind him, the color-changing light that shined from Blade Base’s glass capstone shifted through a few shades of red and purple. The noise of the cars on the road sounded more distant than it actually was. Gritting his teeth, Lance looked at Shiro. Shiro shut his eyes. Then sighed.

            “I saw the post,” he said. “About the performance.”

            “So?”

            “He hasn’t called, Lance. I haven’t talked to him since—”

            “ _So?_ ”

            Shiro fell silent. Shaking his head, clicking his tongue in distaste, Lance turned back toward Blade Base. He’d go find his phone, call Keith, tell him to be safe or something. Jesus, he didn’t know. What the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry your brother’s a well-meaning dumbass? Before he could get to the door, however, the rumble of Keith’s motorcycle returned, coming full circle around the building. He pulled up right in front of Lance.

            “Get on!” Keith shouted over the engine.

            Lance didn’t hesitate. Mounting the bike, he barely had time to glance at Shiro as Keith punched the throttle and took off a second time.

            He drove _scary_ fast. Cut traffic. Lance wrapped his arms tight around Keith’s waist—nervous for the first time about his lack of of a helmet.

            Keith did not slow as they left downtown. He sped up. They flew toward the mountains, up the first bench, then the second, where Keith took a sharp turn into the parking lot for a scenic outlook and shut the bike down. Sensing Keith’s violent desire to dismount, Lance scrambled off only seconds before him. As soon as he was free, Keith took off his helmet, dropped it on the ground, stalked to the edge of the outlook, and just… _yelled._

His voice echoed across the valley until the sounds of the city swallowed it.

            Afterward, he sat down on the retaining wall and let his shoulders slump.

            Lance hung back. He was still processing. Processing Shiro, Keith’s reaction, that bike ride, their destination. Eventually, he made his way to Keith and sat beside him. It was quiet up on the mountain.

            Lance opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Keith beat him to it.

            “I don’t want to be like this,” he said. His voice was steady, strong, and disconnected. “I don’t want to run away like a child. I don’t want to throw tantrums. I don’t want… I don’t want to _do_ this, but they bring it out of me, Lance.” He looked sideways at Lance, and his eyes were distant. “My family brings _this_ me out. And I don’t want to be this me.”

            “You have every right to be angry, Keith.”

            Keith shook his head. “I don’t like being out of control. I don’t like…” He looked at his hands, flexed his fingers like they were foreign to him. “I don’t like the impulses. I don’t like feeling like I _have_ to act on them.”

            Even as he spoke, he took his phone from his pocket and dialed a number Lance couldn’t see. The line only rang once, and Keith didn’t give the person on the other end space for so much as a syllable.

            “If I see your face again before _I_ choose, I’m gonna kick you in the fucking throat, got it, Takashi? I am fucking _furious_ with you.”

            Keith didn’t wait for a response. He hung up, then turned his phone off and shoved it back into his jacket pocket. For a beat or two, he stared at the lights of the city, tracking the passage of cars, tracing the outlines of buildings in the night with his eyes. Then he leaned forward, put his face in his hands, and cried.

            Lance didn’t know what to do. He rested a hand on Keith’s shoulder, squeezed. Drew him close after a moment. Keith was stiff.

            “I—I d-don’t want to be…like this,” he blubbered, and Lance’s heart broke.

            He threw both arms around Keith and crushed him, held him tight, absolutely relentless, heedless of the uncomfortable position and Keith’s elbow in his gut. Tears filled Lance’s eyes, but he held them back.

            “You’re a good person, Keith,” he whispered.

            Keith hiccuped and cried harder. Lance pulled him closer.

            “You’re supportive and kind. You know how to listen. You’re so patient. You’re an amazing teacher, and you don’t take anybody’s bullshit. You know who you are and you know what’s important. You bring out the best in people, Keith.”

            “Not my parents,” Keith sobbed, quiet.

            “Some people don’t like realizing they can be better,” Lance replied. “They don’t want to change, so they buckle down and refuse to budge. That’s not your fault.”

            Keith didn’t reply for a long time, but he wasn’t exactly silent. He just kept crying and crying, his entire body shaking with every sob. Lance couldn’t keep his own tears in anymore, but he did keep them quiet—just a few slipping free to cut saline trails down his cheeks. He pressed his face into Keith’s hair and kissed the top of his head. Through the whole ordeal, he refused to let go.

            Eventually, Keith just sort of ran out of steam. The tears stopped, but he trembled a little.

            “I don’t think I can throw a blanket over it like we talked about,” he said. “I don’t think I can ignore it. I don’t think I have any choice but to start cleaning up and I’m so scared, Lance. I’m scared.”

            Lance cleared his throat. “I’m with you, babe.”

            “I can’t do this.”

            Lance had never heard Keith’s voice sound so small. He spent a long time thinking, but came up empty in the end.

            “I don’t know what to say, Keith.”

            “I don’t think there’s anything you _can_ say,” Keith replied. Sitting up, he wiped his hands across his cheeks and released a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t have to get sucked into this bullshit.”

            “I know what I signed up for,” Lance replied.

            Keith turned sharply to look at him. “Do you?”

            Lance’s mouth opened and a few stammered syllables fell out before he could close it. After a moment, he sighed in defeat.

            “All right, no. I don’t.”

            That first time he and Keith had gone out, when they’d been driving up the canyon and Keith had rolled down his window to yell in triumph, Lance _had_ wondered if he really knew what he was getting himself into. But almost a year had passed since then, and he understood Keith now. Sure, he had never seen this side of him, but that wasn’t the point. Lance loved him—and that love came with a “no matter what” clause.

            “Hey…” he said, and waited until Keith had looked at him again before continuing, “I’m not gonna lie and say I’m stoked to deal with family drama, but, like…I _am_ willing, Keith. We’re a team, right?”

            Sniffing, Keith pursed his lips, so Lance took his face in his hands and held his eye.

            “I mean it when I say I love you.”

            Keith’s chin trembled, and tears welled up in his eyes. Lance pulled him forward to press a kiss to his mouth before wrapping his arms around his neck and holding tight. Keith started to cry again, his hands creeping up Lance’s back to knot his fingers in his shirt.

            They sat like that until Keith ran out of steam again a few minutes later.

            Lifting his feet onto the retaining wall, Keith slowly collapsed to rest his head on Lance’s lap. Lance combed his fingers through Keith’s hair.

            “Will you call Kolivan and tell him we’re all right?” Keith asked, his voice a little syrupy.

            “I don’t have my phone.”

            “Oh…”

            Shifting, Keith fished his from his pocket and held it up for Lance to take. After turning it on, Lance sifted through Keith’s contacts until he found Kolivan’s number, then hit the button to dial and held the phone to his ear. It rang twice before Kolivan answered.

            “Keith?”

            “No, it’s Lance, sorry. Keith asked me to call, let you know we’re okay.”

            “Where are you?”

            “At an outlook up on the north side.”

            “All right. Is Keith…?”

            “No.”

            Kolivan sighed—just a heavy breath leaving his nose. “All right.”

            “Is Blaytz still there?”

            “I believe so.”

            “Will you let him know where I am? I left my phone there, otherwise I’d text him.”

            “I will.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Be careful.”

            “You got it.”

            Both of them were silent for a shared moment of solidarity, worried about Keith. Then they said their goodbyes and hung up. Lance held on to the phone. His eyes shifted from the glowing city in front of him to Keith’s head on his lap. Keith had closed his eyes. Lance’s heart twisted, but he didn’t say anything.

            Silent, he sat and listened to the distant noise of downtown, to the night breeze that rustled the scrub oak on the mountain behind him.

            Keith didn’t deserve this. Nobody _deserved_ it, really, but especially not Keith. Maybe Lance only felt that way because Keith was his boyfriend, because he loved him, because he was desperately devoted to him, but this kind of shit just wasn’t fair. Lance was angry at Shiro for interfering, angry at Keith’s parents for creating the problem in the first place. Angry at the world for being so cruel.

            Drawing in a deep breath, Keith sat up.

            “Is your stuff at Blade Base?” he asked.

            Lance nodded.

            “We can stop on our way home.”

            “Okay…”

            Keith got up. Lance followed. After grabbing his helmet from the ground, Keith mounted the bike and balanced before Lance climbed on. Then they put the outlook behind them and returned to the city.

            The drive was slow. Keith seemed particularly cautious, constantly checking Lance’s grip around his waist, driving five under the speed limit. They arrived at Blade Base just as the last set for the night ended. A steady stream of patrons flowed through the front door into the parking lot. Keith headed around back and steadied the bike so Lance could climb off.

            “I don’t really want to go in,” Keith said.

            Lance leaned forward to kiss him. “I’ll be fast.”

            He jogged to the employee door and swept through the hallway to the green room, then dressing room, to grab his stuff. He ran into a couple people in the process, offered smiles and friendly chatter, but kept it brief. As he left the dressing room, he came across Kolivan and Blaytz in the hall. His stomach flipped. He would have thought Blaytz had gone home.

            Blaytz gave a crooked smile. “The runaway returns.”

            “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Lance said, coming up to him. “There’s this whole thing going on, and I—”

            Kolivan raised a hand, so Lance fell silent.

            “I’ve explained the situation,” Kolivan said. “To a degree.”

            “No worries, man,” Blaytz said, clapping Lance on the shoulder. “I gotcha. You go take care of your boy, and we can talk tomorrow about a contract.”

            How was it possible for so much good and so much bad to happen at the same time? Conflicted, grateful, thrilled, but hurting, Lance nodded and said goodbye to both of them. Blaytz called out as he reached the back door.

            “You tell Keith we gotta meet, though,” he said. “Not compromising on that.”

            Lance smiled and offered a firm nod. “Of course.”

            Blaytz nodded back, and Lance pushed through the door, returning to Keith, and then to their house in the Avenues. Krolia came rushing up the outside stairs the minute they pulled into the driveway. Kolivan must have called her. Told her what happened. She gave Keith this look, and he got off the bike to go to her open arms.

           “I’m so sorry, baby,” she said, and Lance would have thought Keith was all out of tears to cry, but he wasn’t, because that started them again.

            Krolia stroked his hair, held him tight, touched a kiss to his cheek. She rested her head against Keith’s, and he clung to her like he might collapse if he didn’t. Rocking side to side, Krolia brushed her hands up and down his back.

            “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. You just cry.”

            “I’m sorry, Mama…” Keith sobbed.

            “What do you have to be sorry for? Don’t apologize.”

            Shivering, Keith nodded.

            “Let’s go inside and we can make some tea and sit on our beautiful new couch, okay?” Krolia said, kissing his temple. “How does that sound?”

            Keith nodded again. Krolia looked to Lance and motioned with her head for him to follow as she led Keith down the stairs. Inside, she sat him down, put a kettle on to boil, and lit a stick of incense before joining him on the couch. She plopped on the chaise part and pulled Keith over to put his head in her lap. Lance sat, too, and put Keith’s feet in his.

            Not two minutes later, Keith was asleep.

            “Will you take that water off so the whistle doesn’t wake him?” Krolia asked, looking to Lance, who nodded.

            Careful, he extracted himself from under Keith’s feet and turned off the burner under the kettle. When he returned to the couch, he and Krolia released synchronized sighs. Both of them had their eyes on Keith.

            “This sucks,” Lance said.

            “He’s held it in for a long time, and now it’s all coming out, that’s all,” Krolia replied. “He never cried when it happened. Not once. He was too angry to cry.” As she looked at her son, a deep expression of remorse overtook her face. “I think about it all the time. If I made the right decision. Letting him go.”

            “Krolia…”

            She shook her head. “I never could have given him what the Shirogones did. The opportunities, the education, the attention. Hell, the state I was in after his dad died, we’d have been lucky if child protective services had even let me keep him a year, I was fifteen years old for Christ’s sake, but that doesn’t keep me from wondering…”

            Jesus. Lance hadn’t even _thought_ about that. He had assumed Keith had told Krolia about what had happened at Shiro’s graduation, yeah, but he’d never considered how she fit into the larger picture. If she hadn’t put Keith up for adoption. If they hadn’t come back in contact with each other after Keith had turned eighteen. Leaning over, Lance reached to take her hand and squeezed hard.

            “None of this is your fault, Krolia,” Lance said.

            “Oh, I know…” she replied. “I couldn’t have known what would happen, and I can’t change the past. And even if I could… I just wish I had been there for him sooner. Always, maybe.”

            Pursing his lips, Lance nodded. He felt the same way. Krolia squeezed his hand.

            “Lance, honey. You’ve been so good for him.” Tears filled her eyes, but she smiled through them when Lance looked at her. “I hope you know that.”

            Welling up, Lance’s throat cinched tight.

            “He’s an easy boy to fall in love with, but not an easy person to keep on loving,” Krolia continued. “Please don’t let this scare you away.”

            “It won’t, Krolia,” Lance said, surprised at the firmness of his voice given his emotional state. “I promise—I… Honestly, I can’t even picture my future without Keith in it anymore. I’m here to stay.”

            Krolia’s tears fell down her cheeks, and she leaned over to pull Lance close and press a determined kiss to his forehead.

            “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith's Kate Bush Set ([playlist link](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLi8jFo752UlDnOQ6a8FeuyyJW5kbLMHd-))  
> Wow  
> The Red Shoes  
> Hello Earth  
> Army Dreamers  
> Mother Stands for Comfort  
> The Man with the Child in His Eyes  
> Get Out of My House  
> In Search of Peter Pan  
> Them Heavy People
> 
> Thanks for reading, you guys. It really does mean the world to me.


	3. Variation Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear, darling readers, thank you so, so much from the bottom of my heart for your patience with me and my unannounced, seven-month hiatus. A lot has happened, a lot has changed, and I lost a lot of my confidence in and patience with myself and my writing. 
> 
> I cannot tell you how much your support and words of encouragement mean and have meant to me. All this time, I've been stewing over this story, wanting so badly to deliver you something, but finding myself frustrated and unable to do so. Thank you for letting me be selfish and take some time to sort myself out. Things are looking sunny for the first time in a long time!
> 
> I really do love each of you so much, and I know how funny that sounds coming from a stranger on the internet, but it's true. 
> 
> To you dedicated readers who have been with me from the very beginning, you are my life blood and I am eternally grateful for you. To those of you who are new, but had the courage to comment on a fic not updated for seven months and tell me how much you loved it, you are my spark. God bless you.
> 
> Thank you all for reading my writing. I think I've finally rediscovered my stride.
> 
> Enjoy. ♥

Though they were both signature early-risers regardless of how late they went to bed, rare was the morning Lance woke before Keith. Lately that trend had changed, however, so Lance wasn’t _really_ surprised when he opened his eyes and Keith was still across from him. Asleep. His arms wrapped around his pillow, his whole body curled up in a tight little ball.

            Lance drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. He had the day off. Who knew what the next couple of hours would bring? He caught himself wishing he was scheduled at work and immediately felt like shit for it.

            Whatever was coming their way, he would deal.

            Careful, Lance inched closer to Keith and reached out a hand to ease his grip on the pillow. Keith stirred, but did not wake, wrapping his fingers around Lance’s instead. Lance brushed his thumb across the back of Keith’s hand, adjusted his head so that their noses were only an inch or two apart. Keith was so pretty asleep. Thick, black hair a mess over his face. Thick, black lashes nearly brushing his skin. Mouth relaxed, lips parted just a little. Lance watched as those violet eyes danced back and forth beneath their lids. Dreaming. Lance touched a gentle kiss to Keith’s knuckles.

            “Hope it’s a good one, babe.”

            Snuggling closer, Lance shut his eyes and waited. Another twenty minutes, and Keith would probably be up. How would he feel? Could Lance wait that long to find out? He opened his eyes again, but resisted waking Keith. After yesterday, the guy could use some sleep.

            Lance’s mind drifted through a nebulous recollection of the events since graduation. Moving out, and in. Unpacking, cleaning, rearranging. New furniture, new work schedule, new job opportunity. New music. Keith’s music. Keith not writing music, dropping out, the shit-storm surrounding his parents, their being at Shiro’s ceremony. Full circle to graduation again.

            Keith pulled in one of those long, waking inhalations, and his fingers tightened briefly around Lance’s hand as if taking stock of it. Lance opened his eyes just as Keith did. He blinked on his hair, so Lance brushed it away from his face. Keith smiled a sleepy, apologetic smile.

            “Do I get you today?” he asked, his voice a coarse whisper.

            “Yeah,” Lance replied, drawing his hand up to his lips to kiss the knuckles again.

            Keith stretched and uncurled himself from his pillow to wrap his arms around Lance, nuzzling his head against his throat.

            “Mn, I love you,” he mumbled.

            “I love you, too, Keith.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            A short note of contentment accompanied Keith’s sigh. Lance put his arms around him and left them loose so he could brush his fingers gently across Keith’s back.

            Quiet.

            “I’m sorry,” Keith said.

            “You don’t have to apologize for your feelings, Keith. Not ever.”

            Keith lifted his head, so Lance tilted his own to look at him. Keith had this searching expression on his face.

            “Hm?” Lance asked.

            “I don’t know,” Keith said, shaking his head.

            Reaching up, Lance took Keith’s face in his hands and eased him down for a kiss. Keith returned it after a moment. His fingers skimmed Lance’s arm to his shoulder, to his neck. He laughed a little into Lance’s mouth, then pulled back.

            “You taste like shit,” he said.

            “Well, excuse me if I don’t wake up with a mouth like a basket of roses,” Lance replied.

            “Who would want to _taste_ a basket of roses?” Keith laughed.

            “Rose is a flavor,” Lance replied, wrestling his hands around Keith’s head to steal a kiss. “Like that dumb expensive lemonade you like.” Keith tried to get loose, but Lance clamped his arms down and kept him prisoner. “Fartimans.”

            “It’s _Fentimans_ , you ass.”

            “No, I know. Fart-i-mans.”

            Keith made another escape attempt and failed, so he went limp. A beat, and he tightened his arms around Lance again. They were quiet for a moment. Lance found himself running his fingers through Keith’s hair.

            “Thank you,” Keith said, his cheek squished against Lance’s chest.

            “What for?”

            “You make me happy,” Keith replied.

            A spark went off in Lance’s heart, and he squeezed Keith hard—like he was trying to squeeze the air out of him or something. Then Keith laughed, and Lance really did squeeze the air out. He let go as Keith gasped in and started laughing all over again. Keith sat up and looked down at him, his expression gorgeous and radiant, his hair an absolute rat’s nest.

            “How are you feeling today?” Lance asked, running his fingers across Keith’s arm.

            Keith nodded. “Better. I don’t know. I think it was good just to, like…get it out.”

            “Yeah.”

            “I wanna look at my music today.”

            Lance’s heart palpitated, shocked. “Really?”

            Tucking his hair behind his ear, Keith nodded again. “It’ll be a good first step, maybe.” He shrugged. “It’s been made pretty damn clear that none of this shit is going back in the box on its own.”

            “I’m not going to disagree with you, but also, like…you didn’t take the first step.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Shiro took the first step. When he didn’t tell you your parents were gonna be at his graduation. You got pushed down this path. I don’t think you should discount that.”

            Pursing his lips, Keith thought. Lance continued to brush his fingers along Keith’s arm, quiet and ready to listen. Keith sighed after a second.

            “You’re right,” he said. “But, I want to be on _my_ path now. I want to step off this one and start a new one where _I’m_ in control. Nothing anybody says or does is going to dictate my trajectory from here on out. Me. In control. Yeah?”

            “Yeah—Keith, yes. _Yes._ Absolutely.” Lance squeezed his arm. “Done.”

            Keith smiled. “Thanks.”

            Propping himself up, Lance hooked an arm around Keith’s neck and eased him down so they could cuddle. Keith snuggled close—warm and heavy. His solid weight still surprised Lance sometimes. Keith was just…strong. In more ways than one. Why somebody wouldn’t want him in their life, Lance couldn’t fathom.

            “You said something about Blaytz being at Blade Base last night, didn’t you?” Keith asked, tracing his fingers across Lance’s chest.

            “Oh! Yeah. He came out to see us play. I had no idea he was gonna be there.”

            “He didn’t tell you?”

            “No. He didn’t want it to affect our performance.”

            Keith chuckled. “Christ. You’re the same person.”

            “He said that, too.”

            Humming, Keith turned his head to kiss Lance’s sternum. “I am _so_ excited for you,” he said.

            “I’m just sorry all this happened when it did.”

            Keith sat up. “What? Why?”

            “I don’t know, just—with all the shit you’re dealing with it seems…a little unfair? Or an added stressor or something. I don’t know. I don’t—I wish your life was going the way you wanted, too.”

            “Lance Ramón McClain,” Keith said, leaning his forearms on Lance’s chest to get right in his face. “If I don’t have to apologize for my feelings, then _you_ absolutely, positively do not have to apologize for your success.” Keith leaned further to kiss him. “Your success is my success.” He kissed him again. “Besides.” Another kiss. “Who says my life isn’t going the way I want.” A kiss. “Because it is.” Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

            That last kiss didn’t really end. It led into another and another as Lance reached up to tangle his fingers in Keith’s hair. Keith eased himself down, fingers trailing Lance’s neck, raising goosebumps, until he lay alongside Lance once again. One lengthy kiss later, he pulled back, but nestled their noses side-by-side.

            “You’re what I want,” Keith said.

            “Morning breath and all?”

            Keith chuckled. “It _is_ pretty bad.”

            Lance slipped his arms around Keith’s waist and his fingers underneath the band on his sleep shorts. “Never heard you complain before.”

            “I’m not— _mnhh_ —complaining,” Keith replied. “Simply stating a fact.”

            Lance loved the way Keith’s eyelashes fluttered at his touch. “You’re wonderful. Do you know that?”

            Keith pressed against him. “If you say so.”

            “Simply stating a fact.”

            A knock sounded at the door and both of them turned their attention to it, lifting their heads. Krolia’s voice came from the other side.

            “Hey, sorry to disturb, but, uhhhh…Ryner’s here and she brought down a big-ass package for you? Delivery guy brought it to the front, so she signed for it.”

            Keith smothered his hand over Lance’s mouth, apparently having spidey-sensed the impending “big-ass package” joke Lance had been about to make.

            “What is it?” Keith called back.

            “Dunno,” Krolia replied, “but I have a pretty good guess.”

            Exchanging curious expressions, Lance and Keith got up. Keith called to Krolia that they would be right out while Lance located a shirt. When they entered the kitchen, they were greeted by the sight of Ryner and Krolia standing at the kitchen table with what was indeed a big-ass package on the surface in front of them. The Fender logo was printed on one side of the cardboard. Keith stopped dead in his tracks.

            “I hope I’m not intruding,” Ryner said with a smile, “but the call of a new instrument was too strong. I wanted to see what you ordered.”

            “I didn’t order anything,” Keith replied.

            “You didn’t?”

            Shaking his head, Keith came forward slowly, like he was expecting the package to wake up and attack him. Krolia passed him a pair of scissors. All four of them glanced at the box, and at each other, in varying degrees of confusion. Then Keith took the scissors to the tape and sliced along the seam.

            Inside the box was another box cushioned by a swarm of those  plastic air pillows. On top of the smaller box was a packing slip. Keith picked it up. Lance leaned closer to glance at it over Keith’s shoulder.

                        _Sender:_             Akihiro Shirogone

 _Recipient:_ Keith Kogane

 _Contents:_         Rarities Flame Maple Top Stratocaster®

                                                Model #: 017654871

                        _Message:_         Hey kiddo. I know I should call but I don’t know what to say. This

                                               is for all the missed birthdays. Dad.

            Once he’d finished reading, Keith passed Krolia the packing slip so she could see. He fished the smaller box out of the big box and set it on the floor as she read. They looked at each other afterward. Held each other’s eye. Neither of them spoke, but they sure said a hell of a lot. Krolia passed Keith the scissors again.

            “Go ahead, baby.”

            Keith cut the tape at the top and slid out a rectangular hardshell case. He lifted that back onto the table, flipped the latches, and raised the lid.

            The kitchen lights glinted off the lacquer of the single most elegant electric guitar Lance had ever seen. Glossy, golden-brown wood body with a tortoiseshell pickguard. Rosewood neck. Shiny chrome hardware. It only saw the light for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Keith to suck in a breath—before he snapped the lid closed again.

            “Oh my god.”

            Keith grabbed the packing slip and rapidly combed over the info a second time. Then he thumped into a dining chair.

            “Oh my _god._ ”

            “What?” Lance asked.

            “That’s a twenty-five-hundred-dollar guitar,” Keith replied, gesturing at the case while Lance reeled.

            “ _What?_ ”

            Keith nodded. “It’s limited-edition. I’ve been following the Rarities Collection since Fender _announced_ it. This is the first model they released. It’s only been out for a month.”

            Leg bouncing in agitation, Keith lifted the lid again and peeked at the guitar for an instant. Then he let the case thunk closed again and covered his face with his hands. Lance couldn’t quite make sense of the noise that came out of Keith’s mouth. It was part groan, part whine, part sigh. Exasperated, but also excited. Mostly conflicted.

            “May I look?” Ryner asked.

            Keith’s hands fell from his face to push the hardshell case across the table. Ryner flipped it around and lifted the lid. Her eyes combed the guitar, but her expression betrayed nothing. Eventually, she closed the case and nodded.

            “I see.”

            Shaking his head, Keith sucked in and released a breath through his nose that legitimately sounded like a gust of wind.

            “What do I do with it?” he asked, looking up at Krolia.

            “Hell if I know,” Krolia replied. She put a hand on her hip and leaned against the table with a huff. “Do you want it?”

            “ _Of course_ I want it,” Keith replied. “It—Christ—you’ve been following Rarities, too.”

            Krolia snorted. “Like a poor kid looking in the window of a candy shop, yeah.”

            Keith’s eyes flicked to the hardshell case. They bore into it so intensely, Lance wouldn’t have been surprised if the case had started to melt. Lips parting, Keith drew in a breath, but it took him a moment to speak. His mouth hung open all that time.

            “There is no way I will _ever_ be able to afford that guitar,” he said. He turned his face to Lance, then Ryner, then Krolia. “But I don’t know if I can keep it.”

            “Walk me through why not,” Krolia prompted, her voice gentle.

            Keith’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. Then he said, “I don’t know. It’s the principle of the thing. My parents push me out of their lives, treat me like shit on the bottom of their shoes—sorry, Ryner—then decide they want back in my life years later, show up out-of-the-blue, expect me to accept it, and when that doesn’t work, send me one of the most expensive guitars on the market as an apology?” He shook his head, swallowing. “Accepting it feels like accepting that what they did to me was okay. And it wasn’t okay. I want them to know that it wasn’t okay.”

           Krolia nodded, but otherwise didn’t respond. She seemed to be waiting for Keith to process another thought. Which he did.

            “I want the guitar, sure,” he said, voice small, chin trembling, “but more than that I want my dad to call me…” Keith’s breath hitched. “…and tell me that he’s sorry.”

            A few quiet, lonely tears made their way down his cheeks and he wiped at them. Krolia tugged him to his feet and wrapped him up in a hug. Brow furrowing, Ryner stepped over and placed a hand on Keith’s shoulder. He leaned back to look at her.

            “I’ll take the guitar with me until you decide what to do with it,” she said.

            Sniffing, Keith nodded. “Thank you, Ryner.”

            She gave him a sad smile, then went to the guitar case and snapped the latches shut. After grabbing the packing slip and both boxes, she nodded at the three of them and excused herself to go back upstairs. Keith relaxed as the instrument left the room, letting out a frustrated groan and wiping his face again.

            “I’m so sick of crying.”

            Krolia squeezed his shoulders. “Better out than in.”

            “Thanks, Shrek.”

            She burst out laughing. The response coaxed a little smile out of Keith, so Krolia looped her arms under his armpits, wrapped them around his back, and lifted him slightly like a kid holding onto a cat.

            “I love you so much, baby,” she said and set him down. “So, so much.”

            “I love you, too, Mama,” Keith replied, chuckling.

            They held onto each other a moment, then separated with a pair of deep exhalations. Keith looked to Lance and smiled. Lance relaxed a little, seeing how genuine the expression was.

            “Can we go somewhere, Boy Scout? I wanna get out of the house.”

 

Forty minutes later, Lance found himself standing in an aisle of vinyl watching Keith comb through the rock selection. Rolo would have killed him if he’d known they’d even set foot inside another record store, but that was beside the point. The point was Keith looked like a friggin’ music god.

            He’d dressed up for whatever reason before they’d left. Pulled his hair into a ponytail at the crown of his head, swapped out his industrial piercing for one with a snake wrapped around the bar. Fluorescent lights caught the sparkly highlighter on his cheek bones and the silver studs on his leather jacket. Slick black from head to toe. He’d even put on false lashes. Lance had been staring at him since they’d entered the music store, remembering that time last October when Keith had walked into Bounty Hunter and told Nyma he was looking for Lance.

            “Are you gonna look, Boy Scout?” Keith asked, reaching the end of a row of records and turning his eyes to Lance. “I want to get you something.”

            “Huh?” Lance blinked to attention. “Oh—sure. Thanks, babe. What for?”

            “You’re my boyfriend and I love you?”

            Lance chuckled and started flipping, but not really, through the nearest row of albums. He stopped after a second, looking at Keith instead.

            “Hey,” he said.

            “What?” Keith replied. He didn’t look up, but he smiled.

            Smiling himself, Lance crossed the distance between them to brush his fingers across the back of Keith’s neck. He left his hand there, relished the warmth that radiated from Keith’s skin.

            “Remember when you tracked me down and asked me to coffee?”

            Keith laughed. “Yeah.”

            “What on earth were you thinking?”

            A slight grin at the corner of his mouth, Keith lifted his gaze to Lance. The intimate eye contact with those violet irises made Lance’s heart skip.

            “I was thinking that if I didn’t do everything I could to make you mine, I would regret it for the rest of my life.”

            The breath Lance had lost failed to return. He could only stare at Keith. Keith smiled.

            “I knew you were special,” he added.

            “But you didn’t know me…”

            “I didn’t need to.”

            That was true. Lance hadn’t needed to know Keith either. Things had been so easy between them. Sure, they’d had a couple hiccups, but nothing major. They’d clicked. Their pieces couldn’t come apart. Try as circumstance might to wear them down, it simply wouldn’t happen. Like Lance had told Krolia—he was here to stay. But what did that mean, exactly?

            The future was still a shapeless wilderness. Lance had no idea where he’d be in five years, or fifty. He didn’t know what would come of working for Blaytz, or what he would do when Upright & Respectable eventually dissolved. He could plan and scheme and anticipate all he wanted. Uncertainty was the only certainty. Being with Keith simply meant that they’d navigate that wilderness together.

            Lance leaned in to touch a kiss to Keith’s mouth. Keith returned it, grazing Lance’s bottom lip with his teeth as he pulled back. The smile he offered as a coda sent a spring of stupid excitement through Lance’s belly.

            “Oof,” he said, which made Keith chuckle. “You’re really hot, do you know that?”

            Keith hip-checked him. “Heard it said.”

            “Wow,” Lance laughed, regaining his footing. “Vain, too.”

            Rolling his eyes, Keith returned to the vinyl at hand. Lance laughed a little and followed suit. The two of them settled into a companionable silence, browsing, until Keith pulled a record out and held it in perfect stillness.

            “What did you find?” Lance asked, coming over.

            In answer, Keith turned the album toward him. Jimmy Buffet. _Living and Dying in 3/4 Time._ Lance fell still as well.

            “Oh,” he said.

            “Yeah,” Keith replied.

            “Does…um…does Shiro have that one?”

            Keith shook his head.

            “Oh.”

            Plastic crinkled as Keith ran his fingers over the record’s protective sleeve. “I wonder if he made it into the Philharmonic.”

            “I’m sure he did.”

            “Yeah…” Keith tightened his grip on the record. “After—you know, after my parents disowned me, I… Takashi and I didn’t talk, um, for like a month?” Nodding like he was finally coming to terms with it, Keith swallowed. “The way he handled the situation really pissed me off, and I think I just realized that if I’d talked to him then, he might have learned what went wrong, and maybe I would have learned _how_ to talk about stuff like this.”

            “I don’t know if you should put that kind of pressure on the past, Keith.”

            “I shouldn’t,” Keith said. He looked up at Lance, and his eyes were clear and calm. “But I _should_ learn from that mistake.”

            He snatched up the Jimmy Buffett record and marched straight to the cash register. A sales associate scrambled to ring him out. Startled, Lance stood and watched it happen—watched Keith put his card in the reader, watched him sign a receipt, watched him take the record back and say no to a bag. An image of him sitting on the edge of the lookout last night flashed across Lance’s mind. The sound of his sobs. The shaking shoulders.

            “Last chance if you wanna pick something out, Boy Scout,” Keith said, pulling his phone from his pocket, dialing, and lifting it to his ear.

            Lance just blinked at him.

            “Hi, Takashi,” Keith said into the phone. “You got a sec?”

 

The three of them met twenty minutes later at Common Grounds, and the first thing Keith said when Shiro arrived at the table was, “Don’t talk until I’m finished laying everything out.”

            Lips sealed, Shiro nodded. He’d stepped in it so many times already—and been threatened with a kick in the throat—that shutting up was really the least he could do. He glanced at Lance as he sat down, but the most Lance could offer was a bewildered expression.

            “First of all, you fucked up,” Keith said, raising both eyebrows. “I hope that’s been made abundantly clear.”

            Not allowed to respond, Shiro sat there while Keith sipped the coffee he’d ordered.

            “Here’s the thing, Takashi.” Keith looked him dead in the eyes. “We made a promise that we would come out to Mom and Dad together. You went back on that promise. I don’t blame you for that. After seeing how they reacted to me, any sensible person would have kept their mouth shut, but that doesn’t make it the right thing to do.”

            Shiro opened his mouth, and Keith snapped out a hand to silence him.

            “No,” he said. “You’ll get your turn, so please just shut up for once in your life?”

            Censured, Shiro sat back. Keith took a deep breath.

            “You had front row seats to how our parents treated me, so I’ll spare you the laundry list of bullshit, but keep all of that in mind, okay? You did _nothing._ You sat there and let me take all of that abuse without a _word._ You stepped back. And _because_ you stepped back, you forfeited any right to an opinion on my relationship with those people. You don’t have a say. You don’t get to take any of this into your hands. You don’t get to be involved. Understand?”

            Shiro nodded.

            “I wasn’t ready to deal with them, Takashi. I do not want them in my life right now, but you decided to throw a fucking curveball and hurl them at me. So here they are, and I have to do something about it. I need you to understand that _any_ action I take from here on out that involves those people is because you _forced_ me into this position, and not because I want to. You took that choice away from me, and that sucks. It sucks for me, and it sucks for you. You _did not_ make the right choice. So don’t think that if I talk to Mom and Dad that you did the right thing because you did not. Even if something good comes out of this, your choice was still wrong. Understand?”

            Again, Shiro nodded.

            “You hurt me, Takashi. _You._ I need you to know that.”

            Keith set down his mug and pursed his lips. He held Shiro’s eye for a moment, then gestured for his brother to take the floor. Looking at his lap, Shiro drew in a deep breath.

            “I’m sorry, Keith,” he said.

            That caught Keith off-guard. He jolted slightly, which Lance only noticed because he had his hand on his knee. Shiro shook his head.

            “I don’t know…I guess—at this point—my intentions don’t really matter, so it feels insincere to explain why I…” He exhaled, sharp and short. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to justify myself.” He lifted his eyes to Keith again. “I _am_ sorry. I feel like the most I can do at this point is accept responsibility. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

            Clearly, Keith had been expecting a debate. Once Shiro finished, Keith just sat there, not really looking at anything. The chatter of other customers around them created a bubble of isolation. The place was busy, but they may as well have been the only people there.

            “I do want to know why, though, Takashi,” Keith whispered.

            It took Shiro a long time to respond. He tapped the fingers of his prosthetic hand against the table, an anxious staccato to accompany his thought gathering.

            “Dad started asking about you,” Shiro began. “I don’t really know why, but every time I saw him he wanted to know how you were doing, what you were doing, if you were happy…” He scratched the back of his head. “And it just…made me sad. Until then, I’d ignored how terrible the situation was because it hurt too much to think about what happened, but he kept bringing it to my attention over and over again, and I wanted to do something about it. I knew you wouldn’t be open to seeing them, and probably wouldn’t take their calls, so I figured I’d have to be the middle man, but I went about it the wrong way. I should have talked to you.”

            “…Yeah.”

            Shiro shifted in his seat like there was more. “Also…” he said, “I’m done lying to them. Things with Adam… I thought—god. I thought maybe if they could mend things with you, when I tell them about Adam, they wouldn’t want to lose both of their children. Again.”

            Keith stared, his eyes wide.

            “I think I chose to forget about what they did to you because I didn’t want to think about it happening to me.”

            Keith just kept staring.

            “You can still kick me in the throat if you want.”

            His voice was so small, Keith’s reply was barely audible.

            “You’re gonna come out to them?”

            Shiro nodded. “I’m worried, though. I don’t want our family to fall apart any more than it already has, but…I should have done it years ago. I should have kept my promise.” He offered a sorrowful smile. “I really am sorry, Keith.”

            Tilting his head back, Keith let out a weird hiccuping sound and said, “I swear to god, if you make me cry in this makeup…”

            Shiro laughed, and the tension broke in an instant. Keith dropped his head to return Shiro’s smile. He wiped a couple of stray tears from the corner of one eye and reached across the table to grab Shiro’s hand.

            “I forgive you, Takashi,” he said. “Thank you for apologizing.”

            Shiro’s chin quivered, and he turned his hand to close his fingers around Keith’s, but he kept it together. The brothers held each other’s eye for a moment, then leaned back and let their breath out. Keith sat up almost immediately to dig through Lance’s backpack, unearthing the Jimmy Buffett record and placing it on his lap. Out of nowhere, Keith grabbed Lance’s cheeks in one of his hands and planted a kiss on his mouth, then turned to Shiro and leaned across the table.

            “Has the Philharmonic made you first chair yet?” he asked.

            Going pink, Shiro looked at his lap. “Auditions are next Tuesday.”

            “You’re in!”

            Shiro blushed in earnest as he nodded. Lance laughed.

            “Congratulations, man.”

            Lance’s phone went off in his pocket before Shiro could reply. Digging it out, Lance recognized Blaytz’s number and excused himself from the table to take the call. He hurried outside as he answered the phone and held it to his ear.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, Lance, it’s Blaytz. Just checking in on you, man. How’s Keith?”

            Smiling, Lance glanced through the front window over his shoulder. Keith and Shiro were laughing at the table as Keith presented the record. Lance’s smile widened.

            “Lots better, actually,” he said.

            “Glad to hear it.”

            “Glad to say it.”

           “I bet. Hey, I’ve got a draft of a contract drawn up for you and your guys. If you have a sec to stop by today, I’d love to chat.”

            Lance’s pulse spiked, but he managed a cool, “Pretty eager to lock us down, huh?”

            Blaytz chuckled. “Don’t act like you’re not worth the trouble,” he replied. “Not every day a guy comes across a nine-piece ensemble like Upright and Respectable. I want you guys to play at Blue. Ain’t gonna be shy about it.”

            Laughing, Lance beamed at his feet. “I’m actually out with Keith at the moment, but we might be able to stop by sometime before three?”

            “I’ll be on-site all day. You know the address.”

            “I do.”

            “Just gonna slide meeting your killer musician boyfriend in there like it’s nothing, eh?”

            “You betcha.”

            Blaytz chuckled again. “Send me an ETA.”

            “Will do.”

            They said their goodbyes, and Lance hung up. He leaned against the coffee shop’s front window and turned his face toward the sky—a strip of cloudless blue between the high rises. What a beginning. To the summer, to his career, to adult life. What to make of it? Any of it? He had no idea what he was doing, but the more he’d grown, the more he’d come to realize that _nobody_ knows what they’re doing. Certain people were simply better at faking it than others.

            He glanced back over his shoulder at Keith and Shiro in Common Grounds. Keith was writing on a napkin. Shiro had leaned over the table.

            Was Keith one of those people?

            Back when they’d first met, Keith had seemed so put together. He’d been confident, self-assured, comfortable. But the more Lance had come to know him, the more unstable that image had become. The more unstable _Keith_ had become. Keith didn’t know everything. He didn’t have it all figured out. He suffered from a natural, human lack of self-esteem.

            And yet…Lance had every confidence in him.

            Funny. How that worked.

            He gave the brothers a little time on their own before going back inside. Shiro rose as Lance approached, clapped him on the shoulder, and said he had to leave. Philharmonic stuff to do. Lance sat and watched him go. Shiro held his head high, stood straight. Happy. Lance looked at Keith.

            “That went well,” he said.

            Keith smiled, but the expression was somber. “He listened,” he replied.

            Leaning over, Lance touched his mouth to Keith’s. Keith returned the kiss and sighed when Lance moved back.

            “Thank you for sitting through that,” Keith said.

            “I’m still with you, babe. One hundred percent.”

            Like the sun peeking over the mountains, Keith’s smile brightened into genuine happiness. His hand bridged the space between them to clasp Lance’s wrist, and Lance marveled yet again at the strength in his fingers.

            “Can I bug you to do something with me?” Lance asked.

            Keith nodded. “Of course.”

            “Wanna go to Blue?”

 

The construction plastic at the top of the building drew Keith’s attention as he tilted his head back to fix his ponytail after taking off his motorcycle helmet.

            “Is that it?” he asked.

            Lance nodded. “He’s installing floor to ceiling windows.”

            Keith grinned. “Cool.”

            Hand-in-hand, they entered the lobby through the street entrance. Little had changed since yesterday, but now Lance felt a bizarre sense of ownership over the mess. The construction was for a club _he_ would play in. The sawdust and tarps and two-by-fours were part of the same project he was. A swell of pride rose in his heart as he led Keith to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

            The doors dinged open to that same raucous scene—hammers and drills and people in orange vests and hardhats shouting to each other. Blaytz looked over from the shell of the central bar as they stepped into the open room. He started over, a smile on his face, his hand extended before he’d crossed even half the distance.

            “Hey, glad you could make it,” he said, shaking with Lance, then Keith. “Damn, you’ve got an A-1 handshake, too.”

            Keith laughed. “Thanks?”

            “Oh, sorry, I’m Blaytz. I saw you play at Blade Base last night, yeah. Incredible.”

            Though Keith laughed again, the tone changed. The sound reflected disbelief and self-deprecation. The way it always did whenever someone complimented him on his musical ability. He even glanced at the floor and tucked some loose hair behind one ear as an accent.

            “Thanks…” he said.

            “Grand tour?” Blaytz asked with a sideways smile. Keith nodded, and Blaytz retrieved hardhats for both of them.

            Lance trailed a half-step behind while Blaytz led the way through Blue, showing Keith the same things he’d shown Lance. Though a day’s construction was the only real difference, Lance saw everything in a new light. A blue light. He could picture the palette, the atmosphere. The energy that vibrated through the space was invisible, but he could _feel_ it like a sound wave.

            At the end of the tour, Blaytz parked them in front of the first of the newly-installed windows and said he’d run down to his office to grab the contracts for Lance to look over. Lance nodded, then turned to Keith. He had his arms folded across his chest and was staring out the window at the busy city before him.

            “So?” Lance asked, approaching from behind. “What do you think?”

            “Too good to be true,” Keith replied.

            Lance nodded, contemplative.

            “It’ll be absolutely stunning when it’s finished,” Keith continued. “People are going to go crazy for it. Blaytz knows exactly what he’s doing.” He nodded to himself.

            “And?” Lance prompted.

            “I think you’d be smart to hitch your horse to his wagon.”

            He hadn’t taken his eyes off the view. He combed over the mountains, the streets, the high rises, the cars and the people that traveled between it all. He exuded a sense of silence in spite of the noise.

            “You okay, babe?”

            Swallowing, Keith replied, “I want this, Lance.” His voice was tight. “I want people to come to a beautiful venue to hear me play. I want them to like me. I want them to like _my_ music. I—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

            “You can totally have this, Keith,” Lance replied. “You’re like eight thousand times more talented than me.”

            Keith shook his head. “I don’t deserve it.”

            That sentence fell on Lance like a goddamn grand piano. Stunned, startled, he couldn’t say anything, and he wasn’t even close to cobbling any words together when Blaytz came back and signaled for him. He wandered over to the guy in a daze, leaving Keith by the window.

            “No pressure,” Blaytz said, passing Lance a manila folder. “Take ‘em home, take a look. If you want to negotiate anything, let me know. One for you in there, and one for Upright and Respectable. Show that to your guys, and if they like it, I’ll need them to come sign copies.”

            His mind on what Keith had just said, Lance gave an empty nod.

            “He play jazz?” Blaytz asked, motioning with his head at Keith.

            “He can,” Lance replied. “He played bass for us to help the band get on its feet, but it’s not, like, you know…his ‘thing.’ He’s really good, though.”

            “That surprises me zero,” Blaytz chuckled. He looked down at Lance with a smile. “What is his ‘thing?’”

            Lance opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. That surprised him. Did he really not know the answer to that question? Keith was a jack-of-all trades when it came to genre. And instruments. Like Shiro had said, “If it’s got strings, Keith plays it.” He’d studied and taught classical violin. He played in a rock band, but Luxite did covers. He could sing like a siren. But what was his favorite? Was it guitar? Violin? Voice? Something else? Lance honestly couldn’t say. Before graduation, Lance would have answered lead electric guitar, hands down, but so much had happened since then, and so much had changed.

            “You’d have to ask him,” he said eventually.

            Pursing his lips in thought, Blaytz turned his attention to Keith. He studied him a moment, and Lance wondered what he saw.

            “Does he know that he’s got it?” Blaytz asked.

            Lance wished he _didn’t_ know the answer to that question.

            “No,” he replied.

 

Keith dropped Lance off at home after that, then got ready, gathered his teacher things, and left for the first of his sessions with violin students. Lance stood in the kitchen for a hot minute after he’d gone, just kind of…upset. Unsettled, maybe.

            He lived here now, in Ryner’s basement in the Avenues, but the kitchen table was different. The couch was different. The room he shared with Keith was different. His trombone got to live on the shelf he’d assembled, stacked alongside Keith’s violin and all his guitars. Krolia’s, too. The hydrangea from the Winter Concert last year sat in the middle of the other greenery on the sill for the window well, the lone flowering plant.

            Lance still hadn’t learned how to take change in stride, and lately his life had been nothing but change.

            Bold of him to complain, in light of the circumstances.

            He took a shower. Tried to read over the contracts. Failed to make sense of them. Worried over whether the pay was fair. Whether the hours would work. Wondered what he was worth. He’d wondered himself outside and into Ryner’s garden when Krolia pulled into the driveway.

            “What are you up to, weirdo?” she called.

            Lance shrugged.

            She got out of the van and came over, tucking her hands into her pockets. She glanced over Ryner’s spring vegetables before lifting her eyes to Lance.

            “How was the trip out of the house?”

            Again, Lance just shrugged.

            Sighing, Krolia nodded. She took a seat on the edge of one of the planters. “He gets like this, Lance,” she said, passing him an understanding expression. “It’s just part of who he is. He’ll come out of it. Don’t…don’t take it on yourself, okay?” She patted the place next to her on the planter, so Lance sat. “You’ve got enough going on.”

            “I can’t, like, _not_ worry about him, though, Krolia,” Lance replied.

            She smiled a sad smile. “I know. I’ve worried about him for twenty-two years.”

            Lance grimaced. “Shit—sorry, I—”

            She shook her head. “Wasn’t trying to one-up you, just let you know that I _get_ it, Lance.”

            Drawing in a deep breath, Lance nodded. He released it as he turned his eyes to the grass. In the quiet of the backyard, he began to notice the noise of late spring—a breeze through leaves, the soft drone of bees, birds exchanging calls and answers. His stomach twisted for some reason, sick with fear. He might’ve thrown up all over that grass right then and there if Krolia hadn’t put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

            “What do _you_ need right now, honey?” she asked.

            His next breath trembled in… “Um.” …and out. “I picked up some contracts from Blaytz today… Maybe you could look at them? Tell me if they’re okay?”

            “Absolutely.”

Reeling him in, Krolia kissed his forehead. Lance lingered in the embrace, letting her hold him close. Maybe that was weird, but he didn’t really care. It was nice. To live with a mom again. To have somebody with a few more years of adult experience give advice. Lance’s advice well was bone dry.

            He and Krolia went inside and she read over the contracts from Blaytz while Lance made dinner and resisted the urge to pester her for comments every five seconds. As he set a plate of spaghetti in front of her, though, he couldn’t wait any longer.

            “So?” he asked, going back for his own plate.

            “It’s a fair deal,” Krolia replied. “Good pay for a starting musician, and none of the language is trying to lock you into anything. Reasonable hours, too. He’s not taking advantage of you, which is a surprise.” She passed the contracts back to Lance and picked up her fork. “You should consider talking to him about _what_ you guys will be playing, though, and who owns the music—especially if it’s original stuff. Get it in writing who has the rights to what.”

            Lance hadn’t thought of that. “Do you think that will be a problem?”

            “Doesn’t matter,” Krolia replied. “You have to prepare for everything.”

            “Okay…”

            He set the contracts aside and started eating, contemplating the idea that Blaytz might try to screw them over at some point. He didn’t seem like the type, but Krolia was right. In music, you never really knew, and people were rarely on anyone’s side but their own.

            “Pretty exciting,” Krolia said, her mouth full of spaghetti.

            Lance nodded.

            “Can I give you some advice?”

            He nodded again.

            “Don’t put all your eggs—and by eggs I mean hopes and dreams—into this one basket,” she said. “This might not be your ‘big break’, and if things don’t work out, or don’t go anywhere, don’t sweat it.”

            For some reason, like he was four steps removed from himself and the room, Lance watched as Krolia swirled spaghetti noodles around her fork and took another bite.

            “What if I don’t ever have a ‘big break’?” he asked.

            “Then you don’t,” Krolia replied.

            She looked at him and it was like her gaze went straight through his head to the wall behind his chair.

            “I know that’s the last thing any starting musician wants to hear, but it’s something I wish somebody had told me,” she said. “Success in this industry has very little to do with being ‘good enough’ and everything to do with knowing the right people and being in the right place at the right time with the right product. For every one person who ‘makes it’ there are hundreds of others _more_ talented who simply go unseen. That’s reality, and it sucks, but you have to make your peace with it. Otherwise the trying will eat you alive.”

            Well, _that_ was a big goddamn pill to swallow. Lance could only stare at Krolia and watch again as she forked some spaghetti and lifted it to her mouth. He felt like he was seeing the whole thing in macro.

            “Don’t tie your self-worth or your talent to your success,” she added. “They’ve got nothing to do with each other.”

            Lance barely managed a nod.

 

The rest of that evening passed in a nebulous haze of anxiety. Lance tried to pin down the various sources, but his emotions slipped like wisps through his fingers. Graduating from college sucked. Being an adult sucked. Not knowing what the hell he was doing sucked. He kind of wished he was eight again, when the biggest triumph and concern was getting ready for the school band’s Parent Concert.

            Krolia went out. Keith came back.

            Lance barely registered either occurrence until Keith leaned over the back of the couch where Lance was laying and a meatball landed on his face. Jolting, Lance just managed to catch the damn thing before it rolled onto the couch.

            “Oh, shit, sorry,” Keith said, correcting the tilt of his plate before all the spaghetti slumped off too.

            “Take your plate to the table, heathen! The couch is _white_.”

            “It’s leather,” Keith said around a bite.

            “ _Yeah_ , and that’s spaghetti sauce, my man. That shit stains everything.”

            Lance plunked the meatball onto Keith’s plate and got up to wipe his face and hands. Stationary, Keith watched him move through the kitchen.

            “What’ve you been up to?” Keith asked.

            “I dunno, nothing? Having a panic attack?” Lance replied. “You?”

            “The shithead kid who doesn’t practice officially dropped me as a teacher today,” Keith replied. He speared a meatball and spoke as he chewed. “So that’s cool.”

            Both of them nodded, silent.

            After a moment, Keith said, “Life’s kinda dumb, huh?”

            Lance sighed in agreement.

            “But at least this spaghetti’s pretty good.”

            Glancing over his shoulder, Lance found Keith looking down at his plate and nodding contemplatively, completely genuine. The sight pushed Lance straight over the edge. He started laughing.

            “What?” Keith asked with a little placebo chuckle.

            But Lance couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe. He laughed so hard he had to lean on the counter in front of the sink to stay upright.

            “What? It’s good spaghetti. Right? Why are you laughing?”

            Keith was laughing, too, purely because Lance was. Shaking his head, Lance came over and took Keith’s face in his hands and kissed him.

            “How do you do that?” Lance asked.

            “What?”

            “Make me feel _so_ good when I feel like shit.”

            He brushed his thumbs across Keith’s cheekbones and coaxed out a soft smile.

            “Glad I can return the favor,” Keith replied.

            Drawing Keith’s face forward, Lance leaned carefully over the dinner plate to kiss him again. A little better this time. A little deeper. A little more attention to detail. He nipped at Keith’s lips. They tasted like spaghetti, but it _was_ pretty good. Keith sighed, and Lance leaned away.

            “Can I ask you a stupid question?” he said.

            “Sure.”

            “What’s your favorite instrument?”

            “Trombone,” Keith replied. “You know that.”

            “No, I mean to play.”

            “Oh…”

            Keith tilted his head in contemplation, drew in and let out a thoughtful breath. Lance felt a little less terrible for not knowing the answer to the question when Blaytz had asked earlier. Seemed like Keith didn’t even know. Lance backed off and leaned against the counter to wait for his answer.

            “That’s a hard question,” Keith finally said.

            “Well, yeah, I can imagine, Mr. Protégé. I mean, you play, like… _eight_.”

            A frown puckered Keith’s brows. “I haven’t touched a banjo in years.”

            “I would very much like for you to reexamine that statement and _then_ scold me.”

            Lance chuckled and the laughter brought a small smile to Keith’s mouth. He shook his head before digging into the spaghetti again, eating three solid forkfuls to delay his response.

            “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s kind of a toss-up.”

            “Between?”

            “Electric guitar and violin.”

            Making a noise of agreement and understanding, Lance nodded. It made sense. Those were the two instruments that encapsulated Keith. The disciplined, classically trained virtuoso on the one hand. The loud, rebellious sex god of rock on the other. Though Lance had never much considered before, Keith really was both of those things at the same time. The personas weren’t mutually exclusive, either. He brought his skill and training to guitar the same way he brought his performance and brazenness to violin.

            Come to think of it, though, Lance had rarely seen Keith _play_ violin. That first performance at Blade Base when they’d met. The Rocky Horror Picture Show cover concert. A couple off-hand études to warm up before a lesson. Little else. Maybe that was why he wouldn’t have guessed it held such a high place in Keith’s esteem. The guy’s relationship with the instrument was pretty fraught, to say the least.

            “You like violin that much, huh?” Lance asked, smiling.

            “First love,” Keith replied with a self-effacing shrug and campy grin.

            “Aw. When’s the wedding?”

            “June,” Keith said, swirling the remainder of his spaghetti on his fork and consuming it in a single, oversized bite.

            The conversation ended momentarily. Keith rinsed off and put his plate in the dishwasher. Lance watched him do it, though his mind was somewhere else with Keith as a child—taking lessons from pointy-faced teachers, practicing five hours a day, crushing it at Federation, growing out of violin after violin. Living with his parents.

            “So,” Keith said, and the weight of what was about to follow that word overburdened the air in an instant. “I’ve been thinking about what to do…”

            He didn’t have to provide an iota more of context. Lance knew what he meant.

            “Okay…” he said.

            Keith sighed. “I think I have to talk with them, face to face. Talking with Shiro today was confirmation of that, though I don’t think my parents would take ‘just shut up and let me yell at you’ very well.”

            “You know them better than me.”

            A laugh, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “Yeah,” Keith said. His eyes went a little blank as he stared at the floor.

            “So, talking to them…” Lance prompted.

            Keith shook himself out of his stupor. “I want a resolution to this, one way or the other,” he said. “Right now it’s like that cat in the box thing.” He squinted, trying to remember. “The guy with the Peanuts character name.”

            “Schrödinger. The Peanuts character is Schroeder.”

            “Of course you know that.”

            “Talking to your parents?”

            “Right.” Keith shook his head a second time to get back on track. “The cat’s alive and dead until you open the box, yeah? I was okay with my relationship with my parents being alive and dead, but I’m not anymore. I have to know. I have to open the box, and if the cat’s alive, great, hooray, I’ve got a new cat, and if it’s dead, then it’s dead, and I can mourn. But I can’t mourn _or_ celebrate until I know. I think the not knowing finally outweighs the risk for me.”

            “Gotcha.” Lance nodded. “How do you wanna open the box?”

            Letting out a hissing sigh, Keith chewed his bottom lip for a second. “I don’t think they’re gonna meet me on my terms,” he said.

            “ _I_ don’t think that’s up to them,” Lance replied.

            Keith snorted. “You’re absolutely right, but they won’t give a shit. Everything has to be about them. Well. Everything has to be about my _mom_. My dad just kind of gets sucked up into the whirlwind.”

            “Fun.”

            “Yeah… I’m hoping maybe I can swing something more in my favor. Dinner at their house, their _turf_ , but my choice.”

            “The illusion of control?”

            “Exactly.”

            Nodding, they both went quiet as they considered the possibilities. Lance was pretty sure Keith could never convince them to come to the basement apartment, and going somewhere neutral (and therefore public) was out of the question given the circumstances. Conversations needed to be had, and some of those conversations might turn into arguments. Fights, even. There would need to be space to do that.

            “Whatever it is, will you come?” Keith asked.

            Lance startled. “Will they let me?”

            “If they won’t, that’s answer enough,” Keith replied with a dismissive shrug.

            He was right. A dismissal of Lance was as good as a dismissal of Keith. His parents would have to accept both of them—not because they were a package deal (which they were), but because Lance was concrete evidence of the thing they’d disowned Keith for in the first place.

            “Then I insist on coming,” Lance said.

            Exhaling, Keith came forward and wrapped his arms around Lance in a firm hug. Lance returned the gesture, holding him tight.

            “Thank you,” Keith said. “It’s gonna be gross.”

            “Hey, we don’t know if the cat’s dead yet,” Lance replied. “It could be very fluffy.”

            Keith sighed, and the breath moved across Lance’s neck. “If it’s alive, it’s feral.”

            “I’ll wear my animal handling gloves.”

            Keith shifted to lean and look up at Lance. His expression was a complicated mix of somber, grateful, anxious, and relieved. He rose onto his toes to take Lance’s face in his hands and touch a kiss to his mouth. Lance obliged, kissing him back.

            “I’ll text my mom tomorrow,” Keith said as they separated. “I don’t want my dad to think that guitar worked…”

            Lance had almost forgotten about the guitar. Two thousand five hundred dollars’ worth of guitar just sitting upstairs at Ryner’s. Lance wondered briefly what Keith’s parents did for a living, but then he remembered something else Keith had mentioned that morning.

            “Speaking of,” Lance started, “did you still want to look at your music?”

            “Oh.” Keith had forgotten, too, apparently. “Actually…yeah. I do.”

            Lance’s heart skipped in excitement.

            “On one condition, though.”

            “Name it.”

            Grinning, Keith placed his chin on Lance’s chest and peered up at him. “You agree to play my _very_ self-indulgent trombone concertino.”

            Lance laughed. “Oh boy.”

            “Is that a yes?”

            He scrunched up his face, but he couldn’t resist. “Yeah.”

            Keith popped up to peck another kiss to his mouth, then let go and started for their room. Lance followed, retrieving his trombone from the instrument rack. He arrived as Keith was sliding the plastic bin with all his sheet music out from underneath the bed. As he opened the lid, Lance opened his trombone case. Keith picked through his compositions while Lance sat down on the edge of the bed and assembled his instrument.

            “I haven’t written anything since I left New Altea,” Keith said, hefting one enormous stack of papers from the bin to begin sorting. “Except those arrangements I did for our joint thing, but I don’t think that counts.”

            “Why’d you stop?” Lance asked as he checked his tuning slide. Seemed like ages since he’d last played trombone.

            “I was never happy with any of it,” Keith replied. “I know you think this stuff is good, but to me it’s like…I tried and failed to get something from my head onto a page. None of these sound the way I want them to…”

            Lance fiddled with his hand slide for a second before connecting it to the bell, then pushed the mouthpiece into its receiver and gently turned it to secure it. “Well, if that’s what your failures look like, your successes will probably kill me on sight.”

            Keith looked up at him and laughed. “You haven’t seen the trombone concertino yet.”

            Lance grimaced. “I get the impression that I’ve made a mistake…”

            In response, Keith just wiggled his eyebrows and returned his attention to the bin of music. Lance had glanced through a lot of the stuff when he’d been cleaning their room, but he wasn’t familiar enough with any of it to comprehend Keith’s sorting method. Eventually, Keith reached the big red book of art rock songs. He meditated over it a moment before setting it down in its own pile.

            “Will _you_ play _me_ something?” Lance asked.

            “Do you want me to?” Keith replied.

            “Abso-friggin-lutely.”

            Pursing his lips, Keith frowned at the piles, then selected a stack of what looked like violin solos. “I’ll play,” he said, “but you have to choose.” He lifted the stack onto the bed next to Lance. “I hate them all equally.” With that, he got up and left the room, presumably to grab his violin.

            Lance set his trombone in its case on the floor and flipped through the pieces in Keith’s absence, not really sure what he was looking for. Keith’s signature notation called out from every page, only now they were accompanied by smudge marks and half-erased rests, a creative process on display. Lance had only seen Keith’s clean notation, final versions of arrangements copied error-free from documents like these ones. He couldn’t help but feel a little honored to have been trusted with the mess and the imperfection.

            A terrible screech from a violin sounded in the living room, followed by a gentle but emphatic, “ _Christ_ ,” from Keith. Tuning, testing, rosin, then he reappeared in the doorway, instrument and music stand in hand.

            “You pick my poison?” Keith asked.

            “Yup,” Lance replied, grabbing a random piece from the center of the stack and holding it out. Keith pulled a face that made Lance laugh. “What?”

            “Nothing,” Keith replied. He adjusted the music stand, took the sheets from Lance, and set them up in front of himself. “I thought I hated them all equally, but…” He wrinkled his nose as he reviewed the first page. “Don’t judge me.”

            He settled the violin under his chin, lifted his bow, and played.

            Lance pretty much stopped breathing the same instant.

            One measure, and Keith had already melted in the music. His eyes closed. His body took on that strange, otherworldly movement all the best players possessed—resonating with the sound like a tuning fork. It was a different sort of bodily engagement than he displayed with guitar, but no less entrancing. More so, maybe, given the ethereal quality of the composition.

            The piece was a sort of Brahms-meets-Biber-via-Glass. Was it a work of technical genius? By no means. Was it a little derivative? Absolutely. Was Lance blown away regardless? You betcha.

            The music itself wasn’t anything special. But the player was.

            Watching Keith work his fingers over those strings, Lance’s mind raced through the same series of thoughts he’d pondered while they’d been waiting for Shiro’s graduation ceremony to start. Who would Keith be right now if he hadn’t dropped out of New Altea? What would he be doing? What would he be composing? Selling? Would he be playing with an orchestra? Sitting first chair violin to Shiro’s cello? He was goddamn _gifted_ , and it broke Lance’s heart in more ways than one to see a person who very well could have been an Itzhak Perlman or a Hilary Hahn playing a piece he’d hid under his bed for an audience of one in a basement.

            He didn’t know when Keith had finished, but he had.

            “Oh my god, are you crying?”

            Lance blinked back to himself and found his eyes flush with tears. The blinking caused a few of them to run down his cheeks. He wiped at them quickly, but it was too late.

            Keith just stared at him.

            “Why are you crying?”

            Shaking his head, Lance stood up, crossed the short distance between himself and Keith, and took that boy’s face in his hands and kissed him hard. Keith stiffened, pulling back, holding his violin and bow in front of his body as a defense.

            “ _Lance_ , what…” The word disappeared on an outward breath as Keith tried to hold back sudden tears of his own. “Why…” That one was barely a vocalization.

            Lance eased Keith’s bow from his hand and set it down, then did the same with the violin as Keith began to cry in earnest. Lance moved quickly the second those sobs started. He wrapped Keith up in a bone-crushing hug, just holding him, holding him, _holding him_ , as if holding him would keep him from unraveling. It didn’t.

            “I let them take this from me,” Keith wept. “I let them—I let them take it—oh my god. Lance.” His fingers dug into Lance’s shirt and skin. “ _Oh my god._ ”

            This time, Lance did not hold back his tears for the sake of being strong. His heart ached for Keith—for Keith right now and for Keith three years ago. For the teenager too scared to tell his parents he was gay and the young adult who was still dealing with the consequences of their prejudice. He wanted to cry for Keith, so he did. They cried together, a pair of musicians, a pair of friends, of teammates, of partners, lovers, people.

            They cried, and somewhere in that crying, there was kissing, and in that kissing they undressed each other and spilled a stack of violin solos all over the floor as they pushed their way to bed.

            Maybe it wasn’t the right time, maybe it was odd, but in the moment, it seemed like the only thing to do. Keith was falling apart in Lance’s arms, torn from the inside out, and both of them needed a release. Though the act was far from romantic, neither of them had ever been filled with so much compassion.

            “ _I love you, Keith_ ,” Lance said, speaking against Keith’s mouth, both of their faces slick with tears. “I love you so much, I’m so sorry.”

            “Me too,” Keith whispered.

            Lance kissed his neck, salty from the saline, and kissed his way down Keith’s trembling chest and ribs. Keith’s fingers stayed tangled in his hair no matter where he went. He kissed his hips, his thighs, his cock. The fingers tightened at that with a little moan. Lance sat up to grab their lube.

            “Lance…”

            He looked at Keith, broken but smiling.

            “This path was— _is_ shitty, but…it’s the one that led me to you, and I wouldn’t trade that. Not for anything.”

            Tears rising all over again, Lance practically fell on top of him, showered him with sloppy, snotty kisses that Keith sloppily returned. Their tongues in each other’s mouths, Lance squeezed Keith’s hip with one hand and guided a first finger in with the other. Keith huffed, and Lance swallowed that breath.

            “I _love you_ ,” Keith said, his eyes steady, clear, and unbreakably linked with Lance’s.

            “ _I love you, too_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're so inclined, hit me with those comments and kudos, you guys. Words cannot express how happy they make me!
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING!! YOU ARE THE BEST!


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